A Cabin on a Hill
by hum-hum-humbug
Summary: Moriarty's cackling and John's breathing fill the cabin."Love? What would you know about love? Creature. It is not something you can learn or read in a book," Moriarty taunts. Sherlock is clutching the table for support now, avoiding John's gaze at all cost. "But I do love him." Moriarty's grin is feral. "Oh Creature. Are you telling me you have a soul?" Warning:mentions of torture
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **

**This is a fusion with Nick Dear's version of Frankenstein which I had the pleasure of seeing this past summer. Could not help myself.**

* * *

He is not. He does not exist.

And then suddenly, he is. He did not ask for this. Did not ask to _be. _But suddenly he is.

OoOoOoO

He thrashes. Parts of him are moving and after a few minutes he realizes that he is moving them. _He_ is moving the long things attached to his body. He is trapped in a thin membrane but soon the moving things attached to his body (he has four of them, it seems) break the thin filmy sheet that is holding him.

He falls. And it hurts when he makes contact with the floor. He feels the Hurt in every part of him that makes contact with the ground. It is sublime.

He moves his eyelids and when he does the darkness goes away and he can see light and colors and shapes. He closes his eyelids again and when he does, all the colors and shapes go away.

He opens his eyes: light.

He closes his eyes: darkness.

He decides he prefers to keep them open but his eyes start to water if he keeps them open for too long so he closes his eyes every once in a while.

OoOoOoO

He is covered with a strange wetness that should not be there. He doesn't think the wetness should be there because it feels strange and smells strange and looks very red.

His body is covered with this red wetness that tastes strange.

OoOoOoOoO

He learns things quickly. He soon finds that he can control those four limbs very well. He doesn't have to crawl on the floor. He can stand on the two things attached to him and if he moves them he can travel around and spin and run.

OoOoOoOoO

He discovers that he is quite intelligent. He does not know if there are other things that exist, so he doesn't know if he is more intelligent than other things or if he would be considered intelligent by other things. But he realizes that his mind races quickly and absorbs things.

He learns how to use his body, he learns how to make noises, he even investigates some of the things in the room. There is a box that makes pretty noises if he presses the right button.

The box emits beautiful stringy noises. He tries to imitate them with his mouth but he knows he isn't doing it perfectly. He wonders if he can use some object to make that noise.

OoOoOoOoO

Not a long time after he is born, he feels the need to close his eyes. He lies downs and closes his eyes. It feels good.

But he is woken up by noises.

"My god Jim! You've done it. It's alive. You have created life. It's alive."

"It is. I did it."

He memorizes the noises to use later. He doesn't know what any of them mean but he likes the noises and memorizes them.

Then suddenly, he is overjoyed. There are other things like him!

He opens his eyes and tries to remember how to stand on his feet.

One of the things starts to make noises again.

"It's fascinating. The hair, the dark curls. The nervous system. The coordination! Marvelous."

"Isn't it?" The second sound-maker is strange. He feels that the second sound-maker must be very smart. _Just like him._

He finally manages to stand and open his eyes. He sees the two things standing by the door.

"You picked a pretty corpse Jim. He must have been exquisite in his living days."

"Yes, quite repulsive now with the scars though isn't he? Not very sexy to look like you're out of a butcher's shop but yes…underneath the scars, a very pretty little thing. It's really the face and chest that are bad. The rest is…"

He remembers how to walk and stumbled towards the two things. He is not alone! These two things are like him. He can be with them. He does not have to be alone.

Suddenly the two things are making very loud noises.

They are screaming.

"Stop it! Keep back. I'll shoot you. Keep back."

"Don't shoot it Seb."

He stops for a moment and continues to stumble towards them. He stretches his limbs so he can hold the two Things. He wants to hold them. But they are moving away from him.

He tries to tell them to come back. "Aawwwwgh. Roooo."

"Stay back!"

Suddenly, one of the sound-makers-the one he likes most- throws a long black material at him.

"Lock the door _mon cher. _Quickly. _Cher_…just lock it."

Everything goes black. By the time he gets rid of the thing and opens his eyes again. The two soundmakers are gone.

He cries.

He had tried to memorize the noises they made but in the end all he can remember and imitate are "_cher_" and "lock".

OoOoOoOoO

He finds out that the long black thing that was thrown at him to blind him is a soft and warm fabric and if he puts his hands in the holes it will hang on him like it was made to hang on him and keep him warm.

OoOoOoOoO

He finds out that the two Things left through a hole. A hole covered with a wooden plank. He breaks the wooden plank. He leaves through the hole too.

OoOoOoOoO

Outside of the room sometimes it is dark. Other times it is light. He decides the reason for the light and warm is the big burning thing in the sky.

One day a lot of clean wet water pours down from the sky and washes away the bad red moisture on his skin.

He laughs. He eats some of the green things on the ground.

He gets better at walking.

OoOoOoOoOoO

When he has been walking for a long time the greenery gives way to large stone boxes. He sees a whole bunch of them beyond a hill. And he hears Things that are making noises.

He laughs with joy and runs towards the noises. He wraps the big black thing around him and runs.

OoOoOoOoO

When the noisemakers see him, they also scream.

"It's a monster! It's repulsive. Get it! Get it."

Some smaller Things throw hard stones at him and it hurts so badly that he howls and runs.

OoOoOoOoO

Every time he hears noises, he goes to be with the Things but the response is always the same.

There is so much pain and he sobs underneath the blows and runs once more.

OoOoOoOoO

He soon deduces that he must look different from these other Things if they respond to him in this way. They do not act this way towards other Things so there must be something wrong with him.

One day he catches his reflection in a stream.

There is something very ugly on his face that he has not seen on the other Things faces. And there is more of the same bumpy red hideous lines on his chest and torso too.

He wonders why.

OoOoOoOoO

He learns to go to the big clusters of boxes and stones and Things when it is dark and all of the Things are sleeping.

He realizes soon that he is smarter than them and he can steal their food and clothes without them noticing or catching him.

He steals the things he sees them wearing so he can look more like them. He steals crisp white shirts and black trousers and jackets and suits.

He always keeps the blackish greyish big thing that the First Thing gave him. He discovers later that it is called a coat.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Soon he walks until he has reached a big steel monster. It is absolutely horrifying. It makes loud noises. He hears someone calling it a "train" and he finds it endlessly fascinating.

He hides on the train and it starts to move. He is delighted. He gets off when it stops and he is in a new place.

OoOoOoOoO

He notices that some of the cold lonely Things go to these big stone structures and sleep there. They get things to eat there too.

A lot of them ask for "Soup".

"Soup," he says once. He imitates the noise they make. It sounds perfect.

He laughs with delight.

One day he wraps his face in a fuzzy warm thing that he has seen many of the things use to cover their necks and mouths. Then he goes to one of the stone buildings where he has seen the cold lonely things go.

"Soup," he says to the first thing that he sees, careful to tip his face under the scarf he is wearing so no one would have to run screaming from his face.

They give him "Soup" and he eats it in a room full of cold lonely sleeping Things.

It is much more delicious than the food he finds in the cans or the green things that grow on the ground.

He sleeps among snoring, breathing, living things.

It feels marvelous.

OoOoOoO

He learns that if he finds ways to hide his face and if he stays quiet, he can go wherever he wants.

He slips into different big, stone structures that he hears the other Things refer to as "Buildings".

One day he slips into a building full of greyer, wrinklier Things. They seem to have difficulty moving their limbs… just like he does!

He goes into the building because he hears a pretty stringy noise from within. It sounds the same as the Black Box in the Room!

The source of the pretty noise is an old wrinkly Thing who is rubbing some wood against some string.

He sits by the Grey Thing and listens. The Grey Thing doesn't seem to notice him until he starts to hum along with the pretty noise. Then the Grey Thing turns around to observe the source of the noise and He freezes to the spot because He realizes that He has forgotten to cover his face.

He is sure that he is about to be beaten again.

"You have quite marvelous pitch," the Grey Thing says. "Who are you?"

He doesn't know what is happening. The Grey Thing isn't shrieking or screaming or hitting him. He seems to be directing the noises at him. He seems to want him to respond!

He rummages his brain for noises he knows. There are very few that he can remember. "Cher…lock. Cher…lock."

"What an interesting name…Sherlock? Was that it? You must excuse me. I am blind I'm afraid, but I venture to guess that you are new here because I have never heard your name before. When did you arrive?"

He rummaged his brain for more noise. "Grah. Grah. Soup. Building. Shirt."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Soup."

"Oh are you hungry? Here is the rest of my dinner if you desire it."

"Aghhh."

"Oh you don't speak English. Quite all right. We all have our weaknesses. I'm completely blind. I can't see at all. Between you and me, we can remedy each other's handicaps."

"Grahhhhnnng."

"No worry my dear fellow. I can teach you to speak English. It isn't the hardest of languages."

He likes this new Thing. It is not yelling or beating him. He touches the wooden stringy thing and hums.

"What is it, Sherlock? Oh the music? Sure. Yes. I can play."

He makes pretty pretty noises with the wood.

"I'm afraid I forgot to introduce myself to you Sherlock. My name is Mycroft Holmes. Yes! I know. I have an interesting name too. Both of our parents were a tad crazed, wouldn't you say? Perhaps we're brothers.

OoOoOoO

He hides in Mycroft's room. Mycroft gives him food and plays the violin for him and teaches him words. He refuses to leave the room.

One day Mycroft touches his face. He wants to run but Mycroft's hands are insistent.

"Have you been in wars little brother? Or an accident perhaps?"

He doesn't know what that means.

He learns to speak and read very, very quickly.

OoOoOoOoO

"What do you see? Tell me. I miss seeing,"

"I see…"

It is so hard to speak.

"Nurse is wearing pink. I can see her through window. She has…I can see by her sleeve that she steal things…"

"_Steals _things Sherlock. Remember subject-verb agreements."

"She steals things from supply closet."

"_The _supply closet."

Sherlock grunts in frustration. He doesn't like being wrong.

"Shush little brother. You have only been speaking for three weeks and already you are remarkably eloquent. Be patient."

OoOoOoO

He learns to play the violin.

OoOoOoOoO

"So you remember nothing before the room?"

"No. There was a membrane and it was slimy and bloody and I broke through it and there I was…I just was."

They sit in silence. Sherlock plays Shubert on the violin.

"Mycroft. I think…I have deduced that I was not born but created…by…a…a scientist? Is that what you call it?"

More silence.

"I think you may be correct," Mycroft concedes.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Sometimes they sneak to the ground for long walks.

"Why do you never leave the room other than to walk in secret? Come to the hall. Speak to the others. They will be overjoyed to have someone so young in their mix. It's a retirement home after all. They could use some excitement."

"No."

"Sherlock—"

"No! Everywhere they beat me. Everywhere. Please. No."

"You couldn't speak before. You can speak now and explain—"

He shoves Mycroft away. The blind man staggers falls to the side of the road.

"No. Do not ask it of me again. They hate me."

More silence. Sherlock is panting. He rushes to Mycroft, who is stumbling in the dirt, struggling to get up, and pulls him to his feet.

"They won't hate you," Mycroft says softy as the two men standing hand in hand.

"They do. Everywhere. They hate. Everyone. Mans. Womans. Childs. Beat me."

He knows he is making many mistakes and the fact that Mycroft doesn't tease him or correct him shows the gravity of the situation.

"Well, ordinary people are ignorant. They don't read and think like you and I. Perhaps they are…afraid of you?"

"Because my look…is monstrous."

Mycroft looks in his direction tenderly. "The body is only transport Sherlock. Your mind is so exquisite, so singular…I do not see how anyone could fail to love you."

"Ah. There's the rub. You do not _see."_

Mycroft bursts into laughter. "Oh my dear! You are marvelous. You are not only making jokes-making puns nonetheless- but also quoting Hamlet. If half the humans of this earth were half as smart as you we would not have so many problems."

Sherlock forgets about the sadness of everyone hating him and glows under the praise for the rest of the walk.

OoOoOoOoO

He spends hours deducing facts about people that come and go in the yard through the window. He describes appearance to Mycroft and then goes on to say what each detail means.

The gardener is having an affair with one of the nurses. One old man is a retired ambassador who wishes not to be recognized because he was almost singlehandedly responsible for the collapse of an entire economy. One of the volunteers was stealing drugs from the medicine cabinet.

Mycroft says he used to do the same when he could see. He used to deduce people.

"You really are my long lost brother."

OoOoOoOO

He reads to Mycroft. _Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Anna Karanena, Paradise Lost _and _Plato's Republic._

He is fascinated by _The Great Gatsby._

"People live in large cities? I have never seen them. I only came upon small cities."

"Towns."

"Towns. Yes."

"Why do people live in cities? You don't live in a city," Sherlock says.

"I don't. I'm old. I used to live in a city. I used to live in London, which is one of the biggest cities and it was lovely. People live in cities because they need each other."

"But then you start to kill each other and rob each other and hurt each other. It is so inconsistent. Why are humans always being so inconsistent?"

"I don't know Sherlock," Mycroft says.

"But you do know it Mycroft. What comes to you so easily, I have to strive to comprehend. So many things in this world I am intelligent enough to understand more quickly than others but…you humans! Human nature continues to confound me."

Mycroft smiles at him affectionately. "Someday you will find someone that makes understanding more easily."

"Will I?"

"Yes. Caring is not an advantage. I myself have steered clear of romantic attachments of any kind. I believe they weaken the faculties. But in your case, you are too good a man not to be cared for."

"What is caring?"

OoOoOoOoO

"Sherlock. Before I went blind and I retired, I used to be a very important person in the British government."

Sherlock plays a few soft notes on the violin, standing by the window of Mycroft's room, looking at the trees and their shifting colors.

"The government? Like Aristotle wrote about?"

"Yes but a modern version of it. I used to help run the country. And I think you should meet some of my old colleagues."

Sherlock suddenly grows cold. He barks a laugh.

"Oh, I see it. So they can use me for experiments…to see how it came to be that I am such. I see. You want them to…use me for science?"

Mycroft looks horrified. "Oh god no. Sherlock. I want you to take my place. To be their brain, their guide, their genius."

"Genius?"

"Surely you've noticed that you are brilliant."

"I spend my time with you and you are also brilliant. So I cannot notice."

"Well, most people can't think. You should meet my old colleagues. You should be running this country! At one year of age, you are one of the smartest men on this planet."

"No."

"Why?"

"They will hate me."

"No they won't. Trust me. You are amazing. No one who speaks to you can hate you. You have my word that nothing bad will happen."

Sherlock plays some Mozart. "I shall agree to it then. Are we to go to London?"

OoOoOoOoO

Sherlock wears one of the well-tailored suits that he has grown partial to over the past year, with the grey coat that his creator had give him hanging neatly about his frame.

He and Mycroft decide on bandaging the left half of his face (the half that is truly grotesque and horrifying) and letting the right half simply be.

Sherlock tries to coordinate his limbs in an elegant manner as they walk through London but he knows his nerves are not as well developed as a normal human and his movements are jerky and awkward. He simply hopes he is not noticed on the way there.

"Now Sherlock. This is 10 Downing Street. I want you to know that not many people are allowed to visit this address. We are very special."

They are let up to a lovely waiting room and offered tea while they wait.

"You're about to meet some of the most important men in the world."

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"Take off the bandages. You have nothing to be afraid of."

Sherlock doesn't move.

"Take them off. Someone as bright as you has nothing to fear of being a little different."

Sherlock takes off the bandages. They wait.

"Hello Mycroft, old chap. Who is it you wanted us to…dear god."

The three men in suits enter the room and freeze. They stare transfixed and staring at the bolts that keep Sherlock's skin together.

"Good day," Sherlock says.

"This is the friend I was—" Mycroft starts but he is cut off by a blood-curdling scream from a secretary who has just entered carrying a trey of tea.

The trey tumbles to the floor as the woman continues to scream.

"Oh my goodness! It's revolting. Help."

Sherlock clings to Mycroft with both hands in fright.

"It's attacking Mr. Holmes. Get security!"

"Security!"

Mycroft tries to explain, holding on to Sherlock. "No he's not—"

But two of the men have already separated them and have Sherlock pressed to the ground. The third man is keeping Mycroft from coming to him.

Sherlock feels a foot make hard contact with his stomach. He howls.

"It's okay Mycroft. You couldn't see. You couldn't see. It's a monster. You're safe now. It was trying to hurt you."

"He is not—"

Security guards swarm in. They use a device to electrify Sherlock. He knows he has learned the name for this device but he cannot remember it.

He howls again. He cannot move his limbs because of the electricity.

The guards drag him to his feet and bind his hands. He tries to remember how to speak again. It takes him several attempts to form the words correctly.

"You promised. Your promised they wouldn't. Mycroft. You promised. You promised," Sherlock sobs over and over.

"Ah it can speak!" one of the men exclaims. "You said he was created by a scientist? Except for it's revolting appearance it does seem quite remarkable. Brilliant science. We should find the scientist who made it and have him work for us."

"You told them," Sherlock sobs as he is dragged away. "You told them that I was…I was…"

"Sherlock," Mycroft cries out. "He's not dangerous. Let him be."

"You're just in shock, my dear fellow. He was trying to kill you moments ago."

Sherlock sobs again as he is led from the room and murmurs "you promised" over and over. He can still hear the conversation between the men as he is led away.

"Calm down Mycroft. It is just a monster."

"No man with such goodness and intelligence is a monster," Mycroft retorts.

"You didn't see it Mycroft. It's not a man, it's barely human."

Sherlock hasn't been fighting the guards until this point but he throws them off now, throws them off just so he can turn back and look down the hallway at Mycroft.

"I hate you Mycroft. I hate you. I told you to leave my being alone and you…did this to me. I will kill you. I'll kill you," he shouts down the corridor where Mycroft is still standing in the room, gently held back by his old colleagues.

Once more he is electrocuted and falls to the floor. He remembers that it is called a Taser.

"You see Mycroft? It's a homicidal monster," one of the men says.

Sherlock continues to sob as he is dragged away.

OoOoOoOoO

They take him to a place called Baskerville. It is a giant lab where they mutate animals and clone mice and do all sorts of other things that Sherlock has only read about in the genetic engineering books in Mycroft's rooms.

They put him through big cold machines that scan his organs and his brain.

"Fascinating," all the scientists say. "Better than what we can do here!"

They strip him and keep him in a cage.

"Get in like the rest of the animals will you?" one exasperated guard snaps at him when he tries to resist.

They feed give him water and food twice a day and always in little bowls in the corner of his cage. At first he refuses to eat, refuses to be fed like and animal. But on the third day he begins to feel weak from hunger and dips his fingers into the gooey wheat mixture that they put in his bowl and begins to eat.

OoOoOoOo

He tries to speak to the handlers. One of them named Sally Donovan misplaces her keys often.

"Judging by your habit of going to Dr. Anderson's lab after lunch every Tuesday, I would say you have dropped it on the floor there when you were undressing," Sherlock supplies helpfully.

The woman looks at him like he is even more revolting than he actually looks.

"They warned me you could simulate human intellect. Freak," she sighs disgustedly and runs off.

Sherlock doesn't understand what he did wrong.

OoOoOoOoO

They whip him to see if he bruises like a human. They cut him to see if his blood has the ability to clot.

He tries to be strong but by the end he is sobbing and begging.

"Please please stop. I feeling it. I swear it. I can feel it just like you would feel. Please stop this, stop. You wouldn't perform surgery on a man while he was being conscious would you?"

He knows his speech has mistakes in it whenever he is panicked but he is past the point of caring.

The man cutting up his torso, a man named Dr. Anderson, hesitates. Sherlock feels hopeful. He tries to reason with Anderson through his tears.

"You wouldn't even operate on an animal without sedatives. Please. Please. Have mercy," he begs.

"Ignore it Anderson. Keep going. It's been made to simulate human responses. It's just a well-made doll. It has no consciousness. It can't feel."

The pain starts again.

OoOoOoOoO

One day as they keep him paralyzed on a surgical table to test the effect of dehydration on his respiration he starts to beg for death.

Everyone but Anderson has left the room and he is busy clearing out one of the supply tables. Sherlock had not planned on it, had not planned on begging and had not planned on wanting to die but he turns his head slightly so he can look at Anderson and then he licks his lips to try and combat the dryness that has suddenly overcome his whole mouth.

"Please…" he rasps, barely conscious.

Anderson turns to look at him quizzically.

"I saw that you hesitated that first day on the operating table. Please," Sherlock repeats. "Kill me."

Anderson's eyes widen.

"I cannot take it anymore. I beg you. Please end this. It would be so easy for you, just a swish of a knife, the injection of a poison. My release would cost you nothing. They wouldn't punish you."

The doctor shakes his head and starts to move for the door.

"Have mercy," Sherlock screams after him.

But the door has already snapped shut.

OoOoOoOoO

They only stitch him back up and disinfected him to keep their favorite lab rat alive.

At night when he is recovering from his wounds in his little cage he thinks about how he has been a slow study. All this time he has been learning from humans how to care and think and behave and do chemistry and quote poetry but he has ignored the characteristic they have exhibited the most:

Cruelty.

Trying to be Good has brought him nothing. He will just be more like the humans. Selfish and evil.

OoOoOoOoO

There are pigs and dogs and monkeys being kept in the cages next to his.

OoOoOoOoO

The guards play cards in the work area by his cage sometimes. There are three of them who slack off regularly and play cards when they are supposed to be keeping watch outside.

He gets in trouble when he points out the hands or reveals bluffs so he tries not to speak.

One night though he is trying to sleep, curled on his stomach and he hears them speak.

"I haven't had a shag in about a month."

"Not even a quick one in the shower with one of the boys?"

"Not a proper shag, you know?"

"Speaking of…look at that Creature thing. It is a delicious little thing from the behind isn't he? It's just the face and chest what's really scarred and disgusting. The legs and the back…how pretty is he?"

"Blimey Fred. He's not even a real person. It would be like shagging a corpse or an animal."

"No it would be like shagging a sex-toy."

"He does have a point. Look at that backside. I mean…look."

They laugh in silence. Sherlock crawls to a corner of his cage but he can already feel them walking towards him.

They take turns holding him down, pinning him to the floor by the head.

"So we don't have to see your face mate. You understand."

They take turns.

He doesn't even scream. He doesn't even cry.

OoOoOoOoO

"Maybe we can start testing medicine on him? Dermal medicine at least. The internal organs are too precious to tamper with," he hears one of the main people in charge of him-Dr. Frankland-say.

Sherlock knows from his study of biochemistry that this is wrong: "You wouldn't get accurate results. I do not possess the same dermal biology as a normal human. Your results would be skewed seeing as any response time would be delayed—"

"Shut up Creature," Dr. Frankland barks.

"The mystery of how he was created is a far more interesting one. Imagine: we can pinpoint the source of life. We can potentially defeat death. I propose we don't tamper with evidence," Dr. Lestrade says.

"That is surprisingly intelligent," Sherlock comments from where he is strapped down on the table.

Sherlock likes Dr. Lestrade. He doesn't seem scared of Sherlock and he is the only person to call him by his name in the lab.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Lestrade does the rounds that night.

"Could I have a blanket please?" Sherlock asks, huddled in the corner of his cage for warmth.

Lestrade looks pained. "Yes. Yes, of course."

He comes back with a big scratchy thing and throws it at him through the bars and backs away quickly.

_Ah. A good and kind man then but still scared and repulsed by me._

Sherlock walks jerkily to the blanket and picks it up, wraps himself in it thoroughly.

"Do you remember how you were made?" Lestrade asks suddenly. A look at his face tells Sherlock that he hadn't meant to ask it.

"No," Sherlock supplies. "The first thing I remember is bursting out of an encasement. And then I just was."

Lestrade studies him carefully. They stare at each other in silence.

"But you know how you were made, don't you? Even though you don't remember it," Lestrade guesses, a look of realization on his face.

Sherlock smiles. This doctor is smarter than he looks.

"I do. I have deduced it. I was made to be as smart as my creator. I think I may even be smarter. I studied chemistry and biology and I think I have deduced how he came to do it."

Lestrade nods.

"But you will never tell us how it was done, will you?"

Sherlock barks a laugh. "Tell you? Tell you so I am no longer a mystery? Tell you so you can use me to test cancer treatments and HIV treatments? No thank you."

Lestrade nods understandingly.

He steps closer to the cage cautiously. "They have been doing horrific tests on you. Painful tests. They think you can't feel. Can you?"

"Yes," Sherlock says miserably.

"Would you say otherwise if you couldn't?"

"No I suppose not."

"But beyond physical pain…can you really feel? Do you have a soul?"

Sherlock leaps to the bars so quickly that Lestrade stumbles back in fright and falls on the floor.

"I don't know Dr. Lestrade. Do _you _know if _you_ have a soul?" Sherlock snarls through the bars with great malice.

Lestrade hurries to his feet and starts to leave.

"Doctor. Please wait," Sherlock says softly, regretting his outburst. Lestrade had not meant to offend him.

Lestrade turns around.

"May I have a spoon please. A spoon? Maybe a plastic one so it cannot be used as a weapon in any way."

Lestrade looks confused.

Sherlock looks over at the bowl of porridge. The bowl is bolted down in the corner of his cage so he cannot move it.

"I am hungry. It's too much liquid-like to eat with my hands…"

The unspoken words are clear: _Do not make me get on my hands and knees and lap up food like a dog. I just want a plastic spoon. Please._

Lestrade suddenly looks very very sad. He looks like he may be about to cry. He goes over to a work-station and grabs a spoon from someone's desk and hands it to him.

Then he turns around and leaves. He doesn't turn around to watch Sherlock eat his porridge.

OoOoOoOoOo

The next day they check how long Sherlock can hold his breath under water.

He realizes what _drowning _feels like. When he emerges he begs for death again but this time everyone in the room laughs.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Lestrade visits him again.

Sherlock is pleased because he is very lonely and very bored. Lestrade is interesting.

"Do you like to read Sherlock?"

Sherlock perks up physically and clambers to his feet clumsily. He wishes his face didn't contort so when he tried to smile.

"I love to read. I very much love it."

"I brought you a book. It's just an encyclopedia but—"

Sherlock has already grabbed the book from him.

"I love encyclopedias!" he exclaims.

Lestrade laughs and it is a genuine one. "First time I've ever heard that one."

Sherlock almost tears up in gratitude. "Thank you."

OoOoOoOo

They find the book a few days later and beat him for it.

Now they chain him up when he is in his cage as well.

They also take his spoon.

And then they transfer Lestrade to another unit.

OoOoOoOoO

No more kindness, no more trying to be good.

It was time for revenge.

OoOoOoOoO

He escapes by nicking Sally Donovan's keys one night. She doesn't notice. She assumes she misplaced them again.

Then he sneaks up on her in the lab and kills her. He slits her throat while standing behind her.

Humans showed him no forgiveness. They showed each other no forgiveness. He won't show forgiveness either. They all had to die. He has learned now what makes them human. He had been ignorant. He has tried to be kind and to makes friends but humans only seem to want to destroy and hurt. He can do that too. He can be selfish.

He has memorized a map of the whole place by now. He makes sure to freeze the camera frames before he goes in. It's child's play.

He goes to Frankland and kills him too.

He finds Anderson. The other two he had killed from behind. Slit their throats while they weren't watching.

But Anderson turns around.

"You showed me no mercy. Do not ask for it now."

"Please—"

But Sherlock has already snapped his neck. He doesn't stab Anderson because he figures he needs clothes and Anderson's clothes will have to do fine before he can find a proper tailor. No need to get blood on them.

Then he finds the soldiers who raped him that night and kills them too. One by one.

OoOoOoOoO

He goes to Lestrade next. The doctor leaps up and backs into a corner when he sees him. He reaches for the phone of the desk.

"Oh don't worry Dr. Lestrade. All the lines are down, the cameras are frozen. It will be about twenty minutes before anyone starts noticing that something is wrong and the place is littered with bodies."

Lestrade goes pale and looks like he is about to be sick. "You've killed—"

"Yes! Yes! I have killed them. I have killed them, just as they would have killed me without any guilt if they didn't want to torture me."

"You murderous monster—"

Sherlock brandishes a pocket handgun he took from one of the soldiers and point it at Lestrade.

"Am I the murderous monster then? Not you? Not them?"

Lestrade is quiet.

Sherlock notices that his face is wet. When did he start crying? His hand is shaking.

"I came here to kill you. To prove that I could kill someone who was kind to me. Do you see? Because I tried to be Good and I was struck down time and time again. So I thought I could show that I could be like you humans, that I could kill someone good. Because that is how the world works, don't you see? Good is not rewarded with good. Killing you would be the ultimate proof. You were kind to me and you should be rewarded with pain and death, just like I was good and was beaten."

Lestarde is shaking with fear in his corner. He closes his eyes and breathes to calm himself, to gain prepare himself for death.

"But I can't," Sherlock sobs. "I am not even human enough to kill you. Live then, you wretched human. Live and laugh and love. Do all the things I never will be able to. I will be ugly and wretched enough for the both of us."

The doctor looks moved by this. He opens his eyes tentatively and starts to walk towards Sherlock with a hand extended.

"No stay back! I did not say I trust you. Experience suggests you will beat me and stuff me back into the cage. No. Stay back. You shall live but you have not been exonerated of the dishonesty of your kind. Stay back. Goodbye. Thank you for the encyclopedia. And the spoon."

Sherlock escapes Baskerville with no alarms sounding behind him. They don't realize that anything is wrong until Lestrade sounds the alarm.

He sounds the alarms ten minutes after Sherlock has already made his way into the moor.

OoOoOOoOoO

Sherlock goes back to 10 Downing Street and sets the whole thing on fire. He wants to burn the men who did that to him. He imagines Mycroft burning in there with the rest of them.

He knows Mycroft won't be in the Prime Minister's house.

Still it is nice to daydream.

OoOoOoOoOO

He hears on the news later, while he is hiding in a warm corner of a homeless shelter, that no one was harmed and the fire was put out.

He sighs exasperatedly.

This whole being evil thing is harder than he expected. First he couldn't kill an innocent person. Next he fails at arson.

He sighs. He needs to be a better criminal.

OoOoOoOoO

Where before he stole only when he had to, now he does it freely. He murders three of the people he steals from.

He does not feel sorry. He knows they would have gladly killed him.

He knows because they all screamed when they saw his face. He waited. He waited. He took their wallets and their watches.

Then he revealed his face, pulled back the scarf and the bandages. And then they would scream and he would not feel bad about killing them.

OoOoOoOoO

The fourth time does not go as planned.

He corners a man in a dark alleyway. He is ready for the game. He has not yet come to relish it or enjoy it. Every scream, every frightened look still hurts him but he is determined to continue. He is determined to do to them what they would do to him.

Justice.

He corners the man with the cane in a dark alleyway.

"Wallet, watch, phone. Everything you have."

But then he is faced-not with the man's valuables-but with a swiftly drawn gun.

Ah, military veteran. Of course. He should have been able to deduce that immediately. Psychosomatic limp.

"Look," the man says calmly, "I don't want to shoot you but if you don't put down your gun—"

Sherlock is frankly bored of this. He wants to skip ahead to the killing.

With a lightening fast punch, he knocks the gun out of the army doctor's hand. The gun falls to the ground with a clatter. And then, just as swiftly Sherlock peels back everything that is covering his face.

But then the man doesn't scream.

He stares at him in fascination but he does not scream.

"Wow. I'm…are you trained? Because I was a soldier and disarming me is not a very easy thing to do," he muses sadly as he looks at his gun, now resting on the ground. "Am I getting slow?" he whispers to himself worriedly.

"No, you're not. I'm just incredibly fast. There is nothing wrong with your reflexes," Sherlock reassures him.

Defeated, the man takes off his watch and grabs his wallet, extends them both towards Sherlock. But Sherlock shakes his head and puts away his gun.

"No I have no interest in the money. I only wished to murder you," he explains.

The other man actually _laughs. _Sherlock stares in fascination. Why is this man laughing?

"You really are something else aren't you? Announcing to people that you want to murder them?" he says between breaths, still laughing in earnest. "So are you going to go ahead and do it then?"

Sherlock stares back in fascination and shakes his head. "No."

The man seems amused by the whole thing. He smirks slightly. "Oh and why not?"

Sherlock cocks his head a little. He thinks he must look like a curious animal. "Because I show my face and then when people scream I am allowed to kill them. You didn't scream."

The man looks oddly moved. He starts to stare at the bolts and the flesh of Sherlock's face for the first time since the conversation started. Sherlock turns away in shame.

"Oh um. Sorry," the man mumbles. "I was in the army though. Nothing is shocking to me."

Sherlock hums noncommittally, still turned away.

"You can turn back around. I'm not screaming," the short man with the cane huffs.

Sherlock turns around.

"So what," the man says. "You just go around robbing and murdering everyone who screams at you? Doesn't seem like a very good way of making people like you," he says dryly.

Sherlock laughs. It sounds scary and foreign. "A joke!"

"Um yes."

"No one make joke at me! Ever."

The man looks unconvinced. "No one has ever joked with you before?"

"No but in fairness I am only two years old."

The man looks at him as if he is mental. Ah, yes. He probably seems mental right now. "You are…two years old," the man repeats, looking afraid for the first time this evening. "Right."

"Oh oh. It might be helpful to mention that I am not a human. I was created in a lab of a scientist. That is how I am two years old."

There is sudden realization on the man's face. "You're the one they warned about on the telly. The one who tried to burn the PM's house!"

Sherlock winces at the word _tried. _Must his failures be thrown in his face so constantly? "Fine, yes. I failed. Yes I miscalculated but—"

"Oh god. You are the one they warned about on telly," the man says. Though he seems more annoyed than afraid. He has an air of "now I must do something about this, how inconvenient".

"Yes. The Monster on television," Sherlock concedes. "Though if you had been beaten and held captive as a result of your so-called brother insisting you visit the Prime Minister and help the government…then you might be a bit more sympathetic to burning his house."

"Wait what?"

"They electrocuted me with…I think they are called Tasers? I was held and had to go through many experiments. Humans are not very nice. So I decided not to be very nice either."

The man looks stunned. "I don't really understand the whole story…but they experimented on you?"

Sherlock shrugs. "What else do you do if you find an aberration of nature?" he muses. "Did you know you are the third ever person to speak to me? The first one was blind, so that does not count and Lestrade was very frightened of me but talked to me because he was very kind. You don't seem very afraid."

The man simply gawks at him.

"It is very fun to talk, don't you think?" Sherlock muses. "I mean, with other humans."

"What?"

"Well I talk to other things all the time. Just to organize my thoughts by saying them aloud. But it is nice to hear response to my words. No one but Mycroft has really ever spoken to me."

The man continues to stare at him. This is getting much less fun.

"This Mycroft character…he is your bother? Should I call him to come pick you up?"

Sherlock laughs. "No not that kind of brother. Not a real one."

They stare at each other in silence. Sherlock feels really bright in his chest all of a sudden. Is this what it might be like to have a friend?

"Look, this is mental and I should report you to the police but…I don't know if that is the right thing to do in this circumstance," the man explains. "I don't want to send you back to…well, wherever it was you were. No one should be experimented on. So if you unarm yourself, you can come back to my flat for tea perhaps and we'll see what we do from there."

Sherlock is elated. "Fascinating! I will see the inside of a flat!"

"Um. Yes."

"Do you have a television?"

"Yeah."

"And a refrigerator?"

"Yes."

"Excellent."

Sherlock dumps his gun in a bin and they walk out of the alleyway together.

"I'm John Watson by the way."

"The name is Sherlock Holmes."

They walk down the abandoned streets.

"So what happened with your face then? Had a little accident shaving or something?" John says lightly.

Sherlock laughs again. It sounds slightly less ugly than the first time. "Another joke! Excellent John. Excellent."

OoOoOoOoOoO

John makes tea. It is delicious.

Sherlock tells John his entire life based on his clothes and his phone.

John seems fascinated.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

"But you haven't actually killed anyone have you? Tonight was the first time you did this?" John asks as he throws some blankets on the couch for him.

"Oh no. I've killed three already. And I killed all the ones at the lab, all the ones that tortured me."

John goes very pale. Sherlock doesn't like that.

"Oh buggering hell. I have a murdering superhuman genius in my flat. Great Watson. Great. You are going to be in so much fucking trouble when the police find out," John mutters to himself.

Sherlock thinks he must care for this human because his chest constricts. He feels life bubble through him and spill over.

He must care because before he can help it he says: "Don't worry. I shall leave in the morning and not bother you. Or you can turn me in now if you want. I mean it sincerely. If it makes you feel less guilty, I should not mind if you turned me in now. I should have minded before but you have already shown me that humans are not all bad…so go ahead."

John softens a bit but he still looks concerned. "Do you feel no remorse?"

"Remorse?" Sherlock repeats, confused. "But why would I? Why did no one ask them if they felt remorse? Because I am a Monster there is no guilt in torturing me? I went to countryside villages, they beat me when I had barely learned to walk. I begged for food, they threw stones at me. I tried to talk to them when I had finally learned how, they took me to a lab and tied me up like a dog in a cage. They started to peel my skin to see my insides as I was still conscious. They laughed when I begged them to stop. They kept me with animals, they didn't believe I was human. They held me down and raped me one by one—"

"Stop. Stop it. Stop. No. Stop," John is sitting on the sofa that he has been setting up for Sherlock, holding his head in his hands. His breath comes in big gulps. Sherlock thinks he is going to be sick. He looks hurt and Sherlock feels guilty for having made him so hurt.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says.

John laughs shakily. "_You _are sorry? You're sorry? Jesus. God. Jesus. I can't believe…"

They sit in silence.

"All right so…no killing people. You should not hurt people," John says firmly. "Unless it is in self-defense. No going around the city killing people."

Sherlock simply sits in the chair and looks at him.

John stands from the sofa. "But really you can't be blamed. You're…obviously very advanced intellectually but you are…only two. And you cannot abuse a child for two years and not expect him to turn on you," he says to himself. "This is like one of those juvenile cases where the kids come from abusive homes."

"I'm not a child," Sherlock says, rather childishly.

"No you're…not. I was just speaking in terms of the law. All I'm saying is that…even though you were wrong…oh god, you murdered people. That is wrong. Maybe we could get a reduced sentence in a court…you'd get off with a fine and some therapy if they knew that you have only been alive for two years and treated poorly almost every minute of it."

Sherlock blinks back at him.

"No no," he begs. "No. Please. I beg you. Kill me here. Kill me now. Take your gun and shoot me. Do not give me back to them. Please."

"I'm not going to—"

"I am not a person," Sherlock shouts. "Don't you see? I have no rights. Taking me to a court is practically a death sentence, or worse, a one-way ticket back to that wretched lab. I'd rather die now. Or you can hand me in to the police if your conscience is too heavy with harboring a criminal. But I'd prefer there be no sham of a hearing. Just hand me in."

John looks very very sad. He simply gets up on from the sofa and straightens some of the pillows.

"Calm down. No one is going to make you go anywhere that you don't what to go, do you hear me?" John says firmly. "I'm not going to force you to go anywhere. You can stay here. You can sleep on the sofa."

Sherlock has never been more grateful.

OoOoOoOoO

He wakes up to the sound of John screaming in his sleep. At first he is scared because this noise is one that people often make when they are scared of him but he soon realizes that John is not scared of him.

He is having a nightmare. Sherlock has never had one and he finds the idea fascinating.

But John is scared. He is scared of the nightmare.

He creeps to John's bedroom without making a single noise and watches as John thrashes and screams on the bed, clutching his leg.

He crouches next to the bed quietly and pats him awkwardly on the back. He has read somewhere that this helps. It seems to help because John's breathing evens out.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Sherlock reads John's morning papers after John is already done with them and heading to work at the clinic. Sherlock starts to solve the crimes he sees in the newspapers. He has John call in to Scotland Yard and report them. He's always right.

He fixes John psychosomatic limp the next week by making him run around the city on a fake chase. He pretends he is trying to catch a criminal.

Then he laughs as John realizes he forgot his cane at the flat.

OoOoOoOoOoO

He starts to solve so many of Scotland Yard's mystery case that they send evidence over to 221B. They never see him or talk to him in person but he sends emails and talks on the phone if necessary.

Sometimes articles pop up in the paper about a mysterious Batman who is solving crimes in London.

Sherlock doesn't care. He just enjoys the puzzles. And he enjoys that John seems to enjoy them even more.

OoOoOoOoO

For the first three weeks he wakes up every day wondering if this will be the day John asks him to move out.

After three weeks he stops worrying.

OoOoOoOoO

They go out at night sometimes so Sherlock can have a walk when not many other people are out.

One time they come back to the flat tired and freezing. John's nose is red, even Sherlock feels the chill to his very bones.

The both sigh with relief as they step back into the warm, dark flat. They lean against the door and breathe heavily, trying to will their limbs to not be frozen.

John turns to him and smiles happily. "We have fun don't we?"

Sherlock nods back happily and hums. They stand together in comfortable silence, trying to regain feeling and heat by simply leaning against the door.

"You're beautiful," John says suddenly and the moment is broken.

"Ghhhh," Sherlock grunts like the days when he could not speak. He hides his face in his arms and turns away from John. He knows his movements are even jerkier and less human-like than usual but he cannot help it. He staggers away from John with his face covered with his arm. He feels cold shame creep through his spine. He knows he looks horrific. He knows the fact that John can be his friend is a miracle. Why must he hear that word? Beautiful. Why would John speak it in his presence?

John follows him in the darkness, panicked.

"No I mean…despite the scars. I mean…I can see that beneath the scars you are very…that without the scars you would be…oh god, I didn't mean it that way. I mean I still find you…I don't even mind the scars…damn it. Damn it. Does your appearance even matter? You're brilliant. You're amazing."

Sherlock is curled on the sofa by this point. "Leave me be."

"I have only known you for a month and you are the most amazing person I have ever met."

Sherlock laughs. "I'm not a person."

"You are the most person person that I have ever met."

OoOoOoOOoO

Sherlock is reading on the couch when John comes back from work. He is carrying an old leather case.

Sherlock's eyes go wide.

"You said you play the violin," John explains sheepishly. "I saw this one at a second hand store. It might not be as good as the one—"

"Thank you," Sherlock says softly, taking the case from him.

He takes out the violin and caresses it softly. He plays a few notes on it and laughs.

He plays Mozart as John makes tea. He thinks John likes the violin because he subconsciously moves to the music as he goes about his work in the kitchen.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Sometimes Sherlock is on telly.

"There are no pictures available of the murderer but sketches approximate him to look something like this. Additionally, authorities would like to inform the public that its uncoordinated movements and speech pattern are distinguishing factors. If you see such a Creature, please report to the police immediately."

John glares at the telly murderously.

"There have also been contradicting reports of his crimes from eye-witnesses. One former Baskerville employee says that he still believes the Creature was not entirely guilty."

Dr. Lestrade appears on the screen.

"He was a human. If anyone ever spoke to him they would know that the bloke was incredibly smart and incredibly sensible, just like any other person. I'm not calling him innocent but all the people he killed in the lab, well, they tortured him and cut him up every day. He didn't hurt anyone he didn't hurt him. I still think the people who authorized his treatment should be on trial."

"I like him," John comments as he sips his tea. "He seems like an actually decent one."

OoOoOoOOoO

A week later Sherlock receives a letter.

"There's a letter for you Sherlock."

Sherlock does not look up from the medical journal that he is reading. "No I don't think so."

"It's addressed to Sherlock Holmes," John insists.

"But no one even knows me by that name," Sherlock mutters to himself as he takes the letter and opens it.

_Dearest little brother,_

_If you are reading this I am already dead. I have been sick for some time now and I don't imagine that I will survive it for long. I regret that we do not have a chance to meet again. Though I imagine you would strangle me if you ever set eyes upon me._

_You may be wondering how I knew where to have the letter sent and to that I say that you must have forgotten that I was once practically the British government. _

_I made a mistake Sherlock. I am to blame for all that you suffered the past year. I knew you would manage to escape. I am proud of you. I did not contact you because I could not risk being watched and inadvertently leading them to you. Do not fear, little brother, this letter shall not be traced, you are quite safe._

_I know you must hate me. But you must also know that I cared for you all along. You are my only family. You'll find enclosed the keys to my flat at 221B Baker Street. It now belongs to you. You will also find that a considerable amount of money has been added to the account of a Dr. John Watson. It is yours. _

_I was disappointed with your attempt at burning 10 Downing Street. It was poorly and hastily executed. Remember not to let your sentiments cloud your judgment._

_My dear Sherlock, I am sorry. You deserved much better than what my poor judgment afforded you. _

_I remain eternally yours in life and in death._

_Your brother,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

_P.S: I should prefer that you do not go about killing people again. Not unless they are causing you distinct inconvenience. Not only do you risk yourself but you also infringe on Dr. Watson's hospitality if you do so. I imagine, however, he will keep you in check._

John watches him read the letter.

"It seems I have just come by a rather nice flat in central London," Sherlock says conversationally from the couch and hands the letter to John.

John read the letter with furrowed brows.

"My God," he gasps as he reads.

"Oh and it seems I have a great deal of money now. I may finally be able to pay you back for all you have done for me," Sherlock muses.

"Jesus Sherlock. He was your only family, don't you even—" John is clearly about to snap at him and ask if he feels any grief. Then he raises his eyes from the letter to look at Sherlock and sees the single tear that is making its way down his cheek and stops in his track.

"Caring is not an advantage John," Sherlock says, trying to hold back the tears, "caring won't bring him back."

John is silent for a long moment. Then he is walking tentatively to Sherlock, ready to embrace him. Sherlock, however, wipes away the tear and composes himself.

"Well, looks like I have a very nice flat now," he says cheerily.

"Yes. Um, yes. Would you…do you need help moving out? Maybe I can help you go tonight?" John asks, looking around the small living room uncomfortably.

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"Looks like you'll have a bed now," John says cheerily. There is something forced about it.

"I never minded sleeping on the sofa. I don't like to sleep much anyway," Sherlock explains.

John is fidgeting. "Maybe we can still…I dunno…keep in touch or…I dunno."

"I was hoping you would…come with me," Sherlock says as if it had been obvious all along that any arrangement would include both of them.

John smiles brightly. "I couldn't possibly—"

"But how else will we solve crimes together?" Sherlock asks, genuinely baffled.

John laughs. "Right. Of course. I forgot you were Batman."

Sherlock had always thought of himself more as the Joker.

OoOoOoOoOoO

The new flat is very very nice. Sherlock very quickly fills it with textbooks and experiments.

"Dear sweet Sherlock," John says sarcastically as he marches out of the kitchen one day. "Could you please please tell me the bag of toes in our fridge did not come from people you personally killed in cold blood and then cut up?"

Sherlock laughs brightly. John's sense of humor never fails to please him. "They did not come from people I personally murdered in cold blood."

John is smiling too at this point. "And where did they come from?"

"A morgue," Sherlock says. The "obviously" remains unsaid but is clear in his expression.

"Right. That really explains everything."

"I steal from the St. Bart's morgue in order to conduct my experiments," Sherlock explains.

John looks a little uneasy.

"It's for science, John!" Sherlock supplies helpfully.

"Right. Well, I suppose stealing body parts is a step up from killing people," John says drily as he goes to put back the toes in the fridge.

Sherlock laughs again.

"Oh god. I am making jokes about murder with my murderer flat mate, I am so going to hell," John muses out loud from the kitchen. "Or jail."

"Nonsense John. Hell does not exist. As for jail, if they ever find me you can absolutely plead that you had no idea about any of it," Sherlock supplies helpfully.

"_Oh did the body parts in the fridge not tip you off that your flatmate might not be the average bloke? _Well, no Your Honor, I just thought he had odd snack preferences," John jokes.

They make eye-contact for a moment and then they both burst out laughing.

OoOoOoOoOoO

"You wouldn't kill again," John claims one day. It's a question.

"I wouldn't," Sherlock affirms as he sips coffee and reads the newspaper.

"You only did it because you were angry and you thought all of humanity was evil."

"Yes."

"And because most of those people hurt you."

"Yes."

"But if someone you….for example, if I do something that hurts you or something that you don't like…would you want to kill me?" John asks. Sherlock looks up. His friend looks more curious than afraid but Sherlock still finds the very idea mortifying.

"No," he says quickly. "Just…no. Never."

They look at each other for a very long time.

OoOoOoOoOoO

John starts to _"_date" a very pretty girl. Sherlock is confused by why he needs to and he finds that he doesn't like this new habit of John's. He likes having John all to himself.

He briefly contemplates killing the girl, Sarah, but he thinks that would displease John.

OoOoOoOoOoO

He realizes that John, while very kind, is still a normal human. He realizes that for the past year he has been taking up most of John's time and energy. He's read enough to know no adult male should wish to live like this, to chase criminals at night and sit in long stretches of silence by day and read books and talk about biology experiments.

John deserves to be happy. Even though it bothers Sherlock every time John goes out to meet her, he practically shoves him out the door.

"Are you sure you don't need anything Sherlock?"

"Quite sure. I'll text you if I do."

"I won't be home late—"

"John. Go on. She'll be waiting."

"Right."

Sherlock has to remind himself that he probably doesn't have the capacity to love anyway.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

John has his hair sleeked back and is wearing a neat button-down.

_Date night, _Sherlock assumes.

"Waiting for Sarah to get off work," Sherlock says, paging through a journal.

"Yes," John says, shuffling awkwardly. It looks like he wants to say something.

"What is it?"

"I think you should meet Sarah."

Sherlock recoils in fear. "No. No."

"No listen, please. She's funny and very kind. And you're an important part of my life…you are a very important my life and if she wants to continue our relationship she needs to meet you and like you."

Sherlock is physically moving away from him now, he is moving across the room to avoid this conversation. John follows boldly.

Sherlock has trouble getting his body to obey his will when he is panicked. It takes him several efforts to get his facial muscles to cooperate. He opens and closes his mouth several times before managing to form the words.

"I don't want…to…be meeting her," he says to John as he backs away slowly from him.

"Don't you see that she won't care? You are brilliant and hilarious and she won't care—"

"Please."

"But why?"

"She will hate me. Everyone hates me."

"I don't hate you."

They look at each other.

"If you ask me to meet her again I will have to end our friendship," Sherlock says coldly. "If you ask me again, I will leave. You will never see me again."

He turns on his heels and leaves the room.

John never mentions it again.

OoOoOoOoOoooO

John is going on another date. Sherlock can tell from his shoes.

"Hey, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Do you…that is…can you…is there any way…have you ever wanted anyone?"

Sherlock sighs with great amusement. "Are you asking me if I can achieve an orgasm? Yes, surprisingly enough my creator did endow me with perfect erectile tissue. I have the occasional unfortunate morning erection but I can usually think it away. I am usually less prone to inopportune erections than regular male humans. My mind controls my body perfectly."

John coughs awkwardly. He looks like he is about to say something and then he coughs again. "But have you never…"

"Yes. Once or twice in the shower. I found it uninteresting."

John looks uncomfortable again. "Um. So have you never had sex…with anyone that you liked…like…"

Sherlock wants to say: _who would ever want me really?_

Instead he decides humor would be a better route. He tries sarcasm:

"Oh yes, my hoards of admirers and I have plenty of sex all the time."

John gives a hearty laugh. "You're funny."

"I learned from you."

John looks nervous again. "Would you ever want to have sex with anyone?"

"No. I'm quite married to my work."

OoOoOoOoOoO

John rarely has nightmares now. He hasn't had one since they moved to 221B but one night as Sherlock is sitting up in the living room to think about their most recent case, he hears tortured screams from the upstairs bedroom.

He tiptoes upstairs. A gentle hand or whispered "wake up" had seemed to calm John in the old flat so he opens the door and crouches next to the bed where John is writhing and screaming in agony.

He pats John's back gently. "It's just a nightmare," he whispers.

John's breathing calms very slowly and he stops shaking. He takes a shuddering breath and his breathing goes back to a regular pace. He savors the sight of John smiling softly and breathing peacefully just because of him.

Sherlock gets up slowly and is about to leave when John speaks. "Thank you."

He stops dead in his track. He had never thought that John had been conscious of his little visits. He fidgets awkwardly.

"Nightmares of Afghanistan again?"

"Not this time, no."

"Oh," Sherlock huffs, not knowing what else to say.

"Would you…were you going to bed?" John asks.

"No. Not yet."

"Would you mind staying, just for a little while?"

Sherlock feels his heart speed up at the request. John wants him to stay. John finds his presence comforting after a nightmare. John wants him.

"Of course. I'll stay as long as you want me to."

John hums his approval and flops to the side to open up some space on the bed. Sherlock sits down.

He sits there the whole night. He knows he can leave after John's breathing enters a cycle but he basks in the light of being allowed to sit in John's presence. He rests one hand on John's shoulder blade and shakes with the overwhelming sensation of being allowed to keep watch over him. He pretends that John leaves Sarah. He pretends that John tells him that his friendship is all that he has ever needed, that he does not need dates or relationships to satisfy him. He pretends that John only needs him. He pretends he is not disfigured so maybe John could want him.

He imagines and imagines until the sun starts to creep in on them. He doesn't want to leave but he knows the end is inevitable. It is okay to sit with John in the middle of the night but is not okay to still be in his bed the next morning. He knows he should leave but instead he watches the golden stream of sun creep from the window and stretch across the floor to the bed and finally onto John.

John cracks on eye open as the sun hits his eyelids and gives Sherlock a bleary look. His eyes fall on Sherlock's hand resting on his back.

Sherlock withdraws the hand apologetically, gets up and leaves the room quickly.

"Wait," John mumbles sleepily but Sherlock does not stop walking.

OoOoOoOoO

Sherlock discovers a full-length mirror in his closet that he had not noticed before. He has seen his reflection in streams and ponds and store windows and small mirrors before but he is too curious to pass up the opportunity to really look and see what everyone else runs from.

He strips to nothing and goes to stand in front of the mirror.

He lets out a brief gasp. The combined effect of the mangled throat, the chewed up chest and the scars on his face really is too much. He almost doesn't look human.

The right side of his face is that of a handsome man with a bad gash across his cheek. Both eyes incredibly bright, high cheekbones, perfect skin, just a small gash on his cheek. The left side, however, is being held together with stitches and bolts, covered with scars that would never heal. One line of stitches extends itself into his black curls.

Then his chin and his throat, he thinks, are the two things that really give it away. His neck looks sown on. It looks like something took his head and stitched it onto his neck in a hasty fashion. Sherlock muses that this is probably exactly what happened.

Then he gets to his chest. It is covered with stitches and bruises. A small silver bolt is jammed into each shoulder to keep them straight.

The legs and torso are quite unblemished. His arms contain only a few stitches here and there.

He sweeps a hand back to his chest, to a particularly pesky bolt that is sticking out of his chest. He is toying with it gently when he realizes that he has left the door open and that John has stopped in his walk-by to stare at him.

John's eyes rest on Sherlock's hand grazing over the scar and he seems to realize what Sherlock is doing right away. His face scrunches in fury.

"Stop it. There is nothing wrong with you," he says. "There is nothing wrong with you. _Damn it._"

And then to Sherlock's surprise, John punches the doorframe hard in frustration. So hard that Sherlock is sure he has fractured a bone in his hand. He rests his forehead against the doorframe and breathes heavily, clutching his hand.

"John, are you—"

"I'm fine," he snaps. And then in a whisper: "And you're fine too. There is nothing wrong with you."

"It really bothers you," Sherlock mumbles. "That people are scared of…I don't understand, why would it bother _you_?"

John shakes his head, turns around and leaves.

OoOoOoOoOoO

He gets requests to go to crime scenes and help. John looks at him expectantly, urging him to go.

He thinks about how much easier it would be if he could see the crime scene for himself. Then he continues to work off the photos.

OoOoOoOoO

Soon a series of articles and television reports start to speculate about the Baker Street Batman who solves crimes and the half-human Creature who seems to have been responsible for the arson.

_"Could it be that the creature is responsible for the recent surge in crime rates?"_

_"Could it be that we have our very own superhero and villain story unfolding in London? The Creature who raises havoc and the Baker Street Batman who solves the crimes without ever appearing to the public!"_

_"Baker Street Batman does it again. An ancient painting uncovered due to a vital tip from the mysterious Scotland Yard consultant."_

John seems to find all of this spectacularly amusing. He laughs every time another reporter ponders the question of the Creature and the Baker Street Batman being in a villain and superhero game.

Sherlock, meanwhile, fumes with his violin.

"Come on. You're not upset are you?" John laughs. "I thought you'd find it amusing. They are literally villainizing you and making you into a hero in the same go."

"I know but I don't think they're entirely wrong and that worries me," Sherlock explains, plucking at the strings of his violin.

John looks bemused. "Sherlock, I'm with you every minute of every day. Well, nearly anyway. There is no way you are responsible for the crimes you are solving."

"No. Not that. I think there is some truth to their babble about how there is someone, some sort of villain, behind all the crimes."

"But none of your recent cases have been linked. They range from murder to bank robbery to—"

"Yes but they have all been organized by an exceptionally brilliant mind. A mind not unlike my own. Even though we have caught the culprits in every case, there seems to have been a greater mind behind the operation. Something like a spider, sitting at the center of a web, pulling each string," Sherlock muses darkly. "Sometimes it's as if the mysteries are designed for me personally, to follow my thought-processes exactly…it is eerie."

John furrows his brows. "So it has to be someone who is just as smart as you are and who knows you're the one helping Scotland Yard. Someone who is playing a game with you, like an enemy. That's impossible. Is there anyone who could fit that bill?"

Sherlock cannot look at John as he says this. He looks out the window at the raindrops pattering on the glass as he plays a few notes on his violin: "Only one person. My Creator."

John furrows his brows in response, Sherlock can see his reflection on the fogged up glass. "You don't think—"

"He's found me."

OoOoOoOoOoO

Someone catches a blurry photo of John and Sherlock. The photo shows them from quite far off, Sherlock with his long sweeping coat, his collar popped up and a scarf and hat obscuring all but his eyes. They are walking away from a crime scene and John is by his side, laughing at something that he's just mumbled through the scarf.

The long sweeping coat and the mysterious hat and scarf don't do much to shed the Batman image.

OoOoOoO

"There is something else that concerns me," Sherlock says as John appears bleary-eyed in the kitchen.

"Good morning to you too," John yawns.

"Soon they'll pinpoint where exactly on Baker Street we live. Soon they'll want a photograph," Sherlock sighs. "I don't think it's safe for me to sneak on to crime scenes any longer. Not even at night. Not even when there is no one else around. One picture and I'll be sent back to Baskerville."

John is fully awake all of a sudden. "I wouldn't let that happen."

Sherlock smiles at him. "You're quite good but not good enough to fend off the entirety of the British Secret Service."

"I will _not _allow them to take you," John says furiously as hepours two cups of coffee and sets one down in front of Sherlock. "I'll go to crime scenes and take notes. Maybe I can even take a laptop or something? You can look at the scenes via Skype. You won't have to leave the living room."

Sherlock gives him his brightest smile: so bright that even the contortions of his facial muscles cannot ruin the beauty of it. "Brilliant John."

OoOoOoOoO

"No I've got a nickname too! Because I'm going to crime scenes on your behalf, they are calling me your sidekick. They're calling me Robin! Robin," John exclaims as he throws a tabloid at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiles at him affectionately from the couch. "Isn't Robin famously a vaguely annoying and unnecessary addition to the Batman franchise?"

John looks comically distressed by this. "Yes! Precisely."

Sherlock laughs heartily at this.

John stomps off to the kitchen to make tea, still muttering: "Robin! Honestly!"

Sherlock shouts after him in a conciliatory fashion. "Oh don't be like that. You're nothing like Robin. You are very necessary to my work and you are not annoying."

John continues to mumble in the kitchen.

"Plus, you are not as good at acrobatics."

More mumbling from the kitchen.

"And you wouldn't look nearly as good as Robin in yellow tights, my friend," Sherlock adds deadpan.

Finally there is a peel of laughter from the kitchen. Sherlock joins in.

OoOoOoOoOoO

There is a letter addressed to him in the mail the next day.

_Hello sweetheart,_

_I know where you live. Have you been enjoying our little game? I must say it has been rather stimulating. You are quite good, pet. Better, even, than I could have hoped for._

_I hope to meet you soon. Are you just aching to meet me?_

_Professor M_

Sherlock throws it in the fireplace before John comes back from his date just to make sure he doesn't see it.

OoOoOoOoOoO

It's the smaller moments. When they are laughing at something stupid on the telly or John texts him anecdotes from the crime scene.

_"One of the younger officers seriously just said: Batman and Robin did it again."_

_"They have that one picture of us on the wall. Oh god."_

_"Someone made a joke about having a Bat Signal. No. I'm putting my foot down."_

Sherlock laughs to himself in the living room.

OoOoOoOoO

"When do you plan on doing it?"

John doesn't even look surprised that he knows. He simply smiles and runs a hand over the ring-box in his left pocket.

"Next week," he smiles.

"Congratulations," Sherlock lies. "I'm sure you will be very happy together."

"Look Sherlock—"

"Shhh. I need to add the acid to the petri dish at the exact right moment or the experiment is ineffective. Allow me to concentrate."

"Right."

OoOoOoOoOo

Sometimes it hits him just when they are sitting in the living room and not doing anything.

He pities real humans because if he does not have the capacity to love, if what he feels for this man is not love but a weak, inhuman imitation of it, then what must real love be like? If his fake imitation of emotion hurts his heart, his head, makes him sick to his stomach, makes him ache in John's presence and ache even more without John's presence…than what agony must real love be like?

He must have been staring at John for a very long time because he turns his head finally. "What?" he snaps.

"Nothing," Sherlock lies. "You're just…you are a very good friend. I am glad…to know you."

Something behind John's eyes shifts and softens.

"You are a good friend too."

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dearest little pet,_

_I cannot wait to see you again. I'm afraid we parted hastily last time we saw each other. Can you blame me? You were a little covered in blood._

_What I'd give to cover you in blood again, sexy! This time with my own hands. I will claw at every scar on your body until you forget everything but my name._

_Until we meet again my sweet._

_Professor M_

OoOoOoOoOoO

_I can't wait to have you begging for your life pet._

_Professor M_

OoOoOoOoOoO

"Sherlock, what the hell is this?" John storms into the living room carrying one of the "Professor M" letters.

"It's addressed to me. That's an invasion of privacy," Sherlock protests.

John rolls his eyes. "Right. Like you even know what privacy means. Isn't that my laptop you're using right now?"

Sherlock huffs in response.

"_Dearest pet, are you excited to come home to daddy? You've been naughty. You might need to be disciplined a little, I look forward to it,"_ John reads. "What the fucking fuck fuck…you don't think you should tell me when you get threatening letters from a madman?"

"I didn't want to concern you."

"You didn't want to…you don't think I should be concerned when my best friend is gets a fucking psycho letter from a mad scientist?"

"The letters don't ever mention you. I had no cause to believe you were in danger."

John sighs. "I'm not concerned about me you absolute wanker, it's you that I'm…Wait a minute. _Letters_? Plural?"

"There have been nineteen thus far."

John is furious at this point. "And you let me carry on pretending nothing is wrong? What is wrong with you?"

Sherlock shrugs and carries on reading his journal.

"You need to tell me these things if we're going to be in this together," John says softly.

"We're not in this together," Sherlock shrugs.

"Yes we are!"

"We most definitely are not. You will marry Sarah and have children and live happily ever after and I will continue to run just as I have since the moment I was born," Sherlock explains calmly. "John I did not ask to be born. But now that I am alive, I will fight to stay alive. Every life, even mine, is worth fighting for."

"Yes. And I'll be right next to you, fighting."

"No you won't. I wish things could be different, John. I really do. But life does not turn out the way we want it to, it just turns out the way it is. So let us enjoy what little time is left before my Creator finally catches up with me."

"Damn it. Damn you," John snaps. "No. If you think I'll just…I won't lose you Sherlock. I was _so alone_ and I owe you so much and there is no way I'm letting you go."

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"You know what he has planned, don't you?" John asks in sudden realization. "You are the smartest man I know. You've already figured it out, haven't you? You know his plan."

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"I can help," John says desperately.

"You'll be late to pick up Sarah," Sherlock says dismissively.

OoOoOoOoOoO

_"Baker Street Batman and Robin crack another case. London owes these two so much. One of the most wanted criminals in London, arrested this afternoon…"_

Sherlock watches the BBC as they announce the capture of an infamous serial murderer. Then they cut away to the footage of John leaving Scotland Yard. His friend pushes through a crowd of reporters who are shouting questions at him.

_"John Watson. What's his name?"_

_"John Watson. Are you two together?"_

_"John, John! Offer to sit down with the Times, both of you, and set the record straight."_

_"John how does he do it?"_

_"John, where is he? Why does he never come outside?"_

John ignores them all and pushes towards the car waiting for him. One reporter, peskier than the others, jumps in front of him.

"John, who is Batman?"

John brushes him aside with a curt smile. "The best and smartest man anyone will ever meet."

OoOoOoOoO

Sherlock knows it is coming.

There is no way to stop it.

He has to face it: their final problem.

OoOoOoOoOoO

"_Dearest pet, I will fuck you until you beg for more and then I will skin you alive and feed you the pieces,_" John reads off as he storms into the room, nearly in tears. "He sent another letter. Jesus, Sherlock. Jesus."

Sherlock shrugs, stirring sugar into his tea. "It doesn't matter how he escalates his threats. I've heard worse."

But suddenly he is being wrapped in a hug. The spoon drops onto the tiled floor of the kitchen with a clatter and John's arms turn him around for a fierce hug.

"It is not okay. It's _not _okay," he growls against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock hugs back tentatively. He's never had a hug before. "I will do anything, anything that is necessary Sherlock. Anything."

OoOoOoOoOoO

Sherlock knows the plan. He knows what must happen.

As he sits with John a few nights later, laughing over a case they have just solved and being fussed over by John for not finishing his food, Sherlock for the first time in his life desires very deeply not only to merely have company but to share everything with the person sitting across from him.

Sherlock knows what is coming for him and he wishes he could tell John.

OoOoOoOoOoO

"I know you've been thinking. I've seen you," John accuses as he comes home with groceries one day.

"Oh no. Not thinking! God forbid there be any thinking in this city. Quick someone call Scotland Yard," Sherlock jokes.

John smiles weakly. "You haven't been out of the house in days. You're composing sad music. You look far off. I know you're scheming. Why won't you let me help you?"

"Because then you will be dragged into something messy and endless and dangerous," Sherlock snaps, toying with the strings of his violin. "And I don't want you to. You're marrying Sarah in two months and you don't deserve to be dragged into this."

John runs a hand over his face. "Your life comes before any plans I might have."

Sherlock raises and eyebrow and says nothing.

"I know you've been alone," John says tenderly. "And I know you don't trust anyone, I know you haven't had friends. But I'm your friend, whether you want it or not. I'm not going anywhere. It's your choice whether or not you want to fill me in but I'm in whether or not you tell me what's you've been planning."

OoOoOoOoOoO

Sherlock begins to wonder if he might tell John after all. If he has actually found a person who cares for him that much.

He buys John a beautiful leather notebook instead.

"Why?" John asks, looking pleased. "It's beautiful, but why?"

"I found those files on your computer. You've been writing up our cases. Of course you missed everything of importance and wrote the stories as if you were writing over embellished poetry, but altogether it seemed like the sort of drivel that the public would enjoy."

John chuckles. "So you thought you'd buy me a ridiculously expensive Smythson notebook to write my drivel in?"

Sherlock looks back at him solemnly. "If this ends badly I would want you to tell the story, the real story."

OoOoOoOoOoO

They get photographs of him a week later. Sherlock knows it has to be his Creator who has somehow arranged it. His Creator has put things into motion by releasing the picture.

They still don't know his address but they start to roam Baker Street.

"_This photo, released on the Internet this morning, confirms that the Creature and the Baker Street Batman are one and the same."_

_"Neither he nor his assistant Dr. John Watson have been seen all week. Their address seems to be untraceable. We only know that it is somewhere on Baker Street."_

_"The police have not been able to make contact through the normal line but are now attempting to trace previous calls and place the Creature under arrest."_

John smashes the telly in with a chair after three minutes but Sherlock is already up and moving to his room. John walks in to see him packing things into two suitcases.

John is confused. "Wha-"

"It's started," Sherlock explains. "It won't be long before they find me. He knows this. He's trying to get me to run. I shall oblige him."

John nods. "I'll pack now. Where to?"

"No," Sherlock huffs exasperatedly. "How many times have we talked about this? You will not be dragged into this. You'll stay here."

"How many times have I told you that you have no choice in the matter?"

Sherlock smirks at at him devilishly "It will be dangerous."

"Good," John smiles back.

"Are you really ready to do this?" Sherlock asks. "If you come, you will most certainly be in danger. On the other hand…if you come there is a chance I may survive this after all. You will do this for me?"

John rolls his eyes. "Genius. I already told you I'm coming and I already told you that I will make sure you survive this. You have a plan then? And it involves my help?"

Sherlock nods. "Yes."

"Then I'm ready."

OoOoOoOoOoO

Switzerland with just the two of them and no press is so wonderful that it is easy to forget that they are being hunted down by the most dangerous man in the world.

They are drinking wine on the deck of a chalet one evening when John asks him.

"Tell me the plan."

"I'm not sure it will work but…yes. Okay."

OoOoOoOoOoO

They relocate from town to town, never staying in one place for too long.

One night when they are taking a walk in the woods, Sherlock almost tells him how he feels.

"The look on his face when you deduced he was sleeping with that woman. It was just priceless," John laughs. "And the fact that you could tell that the other man had been secretly living in Germany just by looking at the size of his wallet. Just fantastic."

Sherlock smiles under the praise. "It's all very simple. Truly."

"Not to anyone else. You're just…"

They stop walking, they are standing under the shade of about a dozen trees, just staring at each other.

"You're just amazing."

He looks at his best friend and the depths of warmth and genuine affection that pool at the bottom of those endless brown eyes and when he opens his mouth he very nearly wants to say that he loves John.

Then the moment has passed and they are walking again.

OoOoOoOoO

They move again. They can't find adjacent rooms so they end up sharing one. There is only one bed but Sherlock is not fond of sleeping so he makes John take the bed and spends the night brooding by the window, which John naturally makes fun of him for.

"Oh yes. Look at me, I'm Sherlock Holmes. Beds are so beneath me. I don't need sleep. I'm a tragic hero so I'll just brood darkly, staring out the window," he mimics as he climbs into bed. "Sherlock, this is a huge bed. Why don't you just come on and sleep for a few hours?"

"Shut up. I need to think," Sherlock says dismissively. "Why hasn't he come for us yet? It makes no sense."

"Yeah I'm not complaining," John chuckles, getting under the covers. "It's been fun actually, just the two of us."

Sherlock's eyes widen in realization and he stops staring out the window to turns around and look at John. "It has, hasn't it? _Just the two of us._ Fantastic John, fantastic."

"Yeah I am," John agrees. "Why am I?"

"It's obvious. You're right."

John looks nervous. "I don't like this. You have that crazed look."

"It's been just the two of us all the time. We need to separate. We need to look vulnerable. We basically need to dangle ourselves under his nose."

John looks unconvinced. "Right."

Sherlock turns back and starts staring out the window again. "Goodnight John. You need to be well-rested tomorrow."

John nods, unconvinced, but closes his eyes anyway. "Right then. Goodnight."

OoOoOoOoOoO

"You'll need to go out on your own but it can't look like we expect him to strike. Go buy warmer clothes and maybe some food, just normal things. Take your time and look relaxed," Sherlock orders the next morning as he drags John out of bed.

"Well, good morning to you too," John yawns.

"No time. Here is a cup of coffee. Now get dressed. Hurry."

"I'm up. I'm up."

John drinks the coffee and dresses hastily as Sherlock continues to brood by the window. "So I'm basically going to be bate."

Sherlock looks around, panic evident in his eyes. "I told you it would be dangerous. You said—"

"I'm not backing out."

Sherlock nods. "Yes. You will be acting as bate but I would never ask you to do it if I thought he had any intention of hurting you. He merely wishes to use you to get me out there."

John pulls on his coat and shakes his head in disbelief. He walks to the door. "I don't know when you'll get it in your head, but it's really not my own safety I'm worried about."

Sherlock smiles at him weakly. "Goodbye, John."

"Goodbye."

OoOoOoOoO

John does not come back that night.

It has started.

OoOoOoOoO

He takes his time making his way back to the cottage where he was born. He takes his time and enjoys the beautiful hillside because he knows John will be safe. John will be safe until he gets there. It is a pretty little spot in the Swiss Alps, near the Reichenbach Falls. Of course, he had not known his location at his time of birth. Of course he had walked aimlessly for miles, from village to village, where he was beaten. Of course, it was merely a matter of chance that he had boarded that train to England. Yet he had deduced the location long ago. He mused as he walked through the greenery, how different he was now, walking up the hill in his tailored suit and sturdy shoes, than he was when he had stumbled and crawled out of the cottage almost four years earlier.

The only constant that remained was the sweeping black coat that the professor had thrown on him to blind him those years ago.

He knows the professor will be waiting there for him there.

With John. With John.

He knocks on the door of the cottage. Best be polite.

"Come in sweetheart."

Ah, that sound he remembers so well. One of the first voices he ever heard in his life.

He opens the door. There he is, his Creator, his Father, his Enemy. And there, tied in the corner, is his beautiful, his kind, his precious John.

It takes all of his power not to growl at Jim.

"Hello Jim," he says pleasantly.

Jim grins at him. "You remembered my name? How sweet of you. I go by Professor Moriarty my darling. I gather you go by Sherlock these days? At least that is who your little friend kept calling out for."

This time Sherlock does growl a bit.

"Tell me dear. How did you come by the name?"

"You named me yourself," Sherlock says conversationally examining the half-lab, half-room casually. "Or do you not remember? Ah, perhaps you don't. Perhaps you were too frightened to realize. The last words I heard you say before you locked me up to rot in this cabin were to your dearest boyfriend…Seb, was it? Where is he? I was so looking forward to meeting him. No matter. You called him "_cher" _in French and told him to lock the door. It was all I remembered. I repeated it for a while. Just that phrase "_cher…_lock" and if Anglicized I suppose you get 'Sherlock'. Strange name, don't you think? A little poetic too though! It harkens a little to Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. _Shylock. _Don't you think? Poor thing. He is eternally trapped in that unflattering portrayal, forever damned by the prejudices against him. And he also loses everything at the end of the play. Apt, n'est-ce pas?"

Moriarty laughs delightedly, giddy as a child. "Oh it speaks! It speaks so beautifully too. My finest experiment to date. Truly great," Moriarty says this more directed to John than Sherlock. "Did you teach him to speak? No, no. It was that Mycroft Holmes wasn't it? Of course. He did always butt in my schemes, even if it was an accident this time. No worry though. I took care of him in the end. Just a little poison did the trick. If only he'd had a pair of eyes to see that his food was being dosed."

Sherlock grinds his teeth in fury. "Yes I knew that had to be you."

"Of course."

"You can let John go now. You have me," Sherlock instructs.

"And miss the chance of watching him watch you die? No no, don't be boring," Jim says disappointedly.

"I won't let you have me until you let him go," Sherlock insists. John tries to protest from his corner but he is effectively gaged and the only sound that comes from him is a series of harsh grunts.

Jim rolls his eyes. "Look, it's been fun but I _own you _Sherlock. I'm your master. You must obey me."

He strolls over to an old radio unit resting near the left wall and turns it on. "I seemed to remember that there was a lovely Shubert cassette in there. Of course I didn't know it was Shubert at the time. I just thought it was a pretty noise."

He turns up the music and strolls back to the center of the room calmly. "You do not own me Moriarty. Even masters have obligations towards their slaves. You left me to die."

"Well, could you blame me? You looked terrifying. But you turned out to have enough elegance and brains to make up for the poor stitching. It has really been fun playing with you. I watched you for three years Sherlock. Ever since I heard whispers about a fascinating semi-human creature at Baskerville. I knew it had to be you. For a little while, I had even hoped you would become a top-grade criminal. In that case we could have lived happily ever after together. As it is now, you're in my way. You've taken a turn to the side of the angels and you need to be ended before you can cause more annoyance or, worse, be replicated."

"And I will let you do that but not before you let go of John."

"Let me?"

"Oh please. I am smarter than you. Don't you think I know how I am killed? You can't over-power me yourself. You need my cooperation."

Moriarty's eyes darken. "No I want to see you fight and beg as I tear you to pieces, sexy."

John's screams of protest fill the little cabin. He sounds like he is in agony.

"And so you shall. I will beg and scream as much as you want. But cannot overpower me singlehandedly. You'll need to tie me down," Sherlock explains. "If I give myself to you, there is no guarantee you will let John go. I want him safe and I want your word he will not be harmed before I give up."

Moriarty seems surprised. "Why do you care so much what happens to this ordinary human?"

Sherlock cannot look at John. He does not have a response.

"Answer me, pet. You're a little mass of flesh and neurons. Why do you care what happens to Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock is silent.

Moriarty pulls a gun. "Answer or I'll blow his brains out anyway."

He cocks the gun, ready to shoot.

"Because I love him. I think I love him," Sherlock howls in agony, almost falling to the floor in his despair. "Please, don't. Please. I'll do anything."

Moriarty's gentle cackling and John's heavy breathing fill the cabin.

"Love? What would you know about love? Creature. It is not something you can learn or read in a book. It's something you feel," Moriarty taunts.

Sherlock is clutching the table for support now, avoiding John's gaze at all costs. "I do love him."

Moriarty's grin is feral. "Oh Creature. Are you telling me you have a soul?"

"I must, I suppose," Sherlock mutters uninterested.

"How does it feel to be in love?"

Sherlock is leaning on the table on both hands, almost writhing in agony. "It feels as if I am being torn apart every time you talk about hurting him. It hurts when he looks at me or touches me but it hurts more when he isn't there, when he's with _her. _I want him to be happy but it hurts when he is happy without me. It feels like my heart is a hammer and my lung is on fire. It feels like I can do anything in the world and yet I am so helpless. It feels as though a world without him would be no world at all. He must be in it, even if I am not."

He is near tears.

"Is that how it feels?" Moriarty wonders.

"Yes!" Sherlock sobs. "I don't know if that is what you call love but that is how I feel."

"I wouldn't know," Moriarty taunts. "It's a weakness I have never indulged in."

Sherlock lays motionless, half-draped on the table at the center of the cabin.

Moriarty walks over to him and caresses his cheek with the gun. "You really are pretty in an odd way, did you know? Oh, we are going to have fun. Maybe I won't even kill you quite yet. Maybe I'll just keep you locked up."

Sherlock shudders at the suggestion but nods anyway. "Let him go."

Moriarty sighs theatrically. "As you wish Creature."

He walks over to John and takes out the gag but doesn't untie his legs. "Up you get soldier. Must get safely away from here before daddy and pet can have fun."

"No, Sherlock. Run. Run, right now," John begs as he tries to tackle Moriarty to the floor. Moriarty stumbles but manages to drag the fighting man across the room.

Sherlock does not move. He simply looks at John with steady eyes. "Please promise that you won't try to find us. Now walk down the hills and to the North. You will find a charming little village where you can find help."

Jim rolls his eyes. "Enough with the sentiment. Come on."

He drags John to the door, he goes kicking and screaming.

"No. If you're going to kill him, kill me too," John shouts, struggling.

"Oh shut up," Moriarty drawls.

"I love you too. Sherlock, I love you. I do, you must know how I feel about—"

Sherlock look at him wearily and shakes his head softly. "Goodbye John."

John is thrown out of the cabin violently, his legs untied hastily. Moriarty then grabs Sherlock, who does not resist, and point the gun at his heart.

"Start walking Dr. Watson, or Creature here gets a bullet through his heart," Moriarty warns. "And don't try coming back here. We'll be long gone by the time you do."

John does not move.

"Now, Dr. Watson. Or I will torture him beyond your imagination."

John walks away stiffly, stifling a sob that is stuck in his throat. He dares not look over his shoulder.

He is quite far when he hears them speak. They are not shouting but their voice echoes through the valley.

"Oh Creature. I am so excited to rip your heart out. You really must be destroyed. You cannot be allowed to continue. Not for long anyhow."

And then Sherlock's voice: "We are both monsters, I think. In reality, neither of us should be allowed to continue."

There is a split second where John is confused. And then he understands and he turns around towards the cabin, where Sherlock and Moriarty's forms stand in the doorway.

And a few things happen at once: Moriarty's eyes are widening with comprehension, Sherlock is reaching for something in his pocket, John is running back to the cabin and screaming: "Sherlock, no." Sherlock turns to look at him as he reaches into his pocket.

They lock eyes for a split-second that feels like it is forever.

And then, a burst of bright light. John is thrown back violently.

"No," he screams. His voice echoes through the valley. Several Johns are shouting "no" at once and from all directions.

He staggers to all fours to look at the cabin but in its place lays a pile of ruins: burning wood, most of the fireplace and parts of the walls are standing. The rest of the cabin is a pile of rubble.

He stays crouched on the grass for what seems like forever, looking at the remnants of the cabin and at the spot where James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes had once stood.

* * *

**Chapters two and three will be up shortly. Please leave reviews. They make my life better and constructive criticism always makes me a better writer.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Subject: Film Offer**

**To: ****JWatson **

**From: ****JDFilmStudios**

_Dear Mr. Watson,_

_I'm so sorry about the recent trauma you have been through with the character the media is calling "Sherlock Holmes". As you may have seen the British media has been quite obsessed with the nature of your relationship and the circumstances of his death._

_Were you aware that he was not human when you started to share rooms with him? Did he keep it from you? Were you ever frightened of him or what he might do? With hindsight were they any hints that he was a serial killer?_

_I heard that you were cleared of all charges and, of course, you had no hand in the crimes but that doesn't keep the media from speculating. I am a film producer and I would really like to give you the chance to tell your side of the story._

_Perhaps a film about the creation of this Creature and him pretending to be a human and fooling you into thinking that he was a war hero while going on killing sprees in secret? It can end with your character discovering his secret and killing him in an epic confrontation!_

_Of course you would get a cut of the profits from the movie. All you'd need to do would be to sell us the rights. We will do all the rest._

_Best,_

_Julianna Delian_

* * *

**Subject: RE: Film Offer **

**To: JDFilmStudios**

**From: JWatson **

Dear Ms. Delian,

There is no amount of torture, let alone the offer of money, that would tempt me to aid in selling such malicious lies about the best man I have ever met.

Do not contact me again or I will spend every cent of the money he left me to sue your company or else buy the company and then blow it up for my own amusement.

Best,

Dr. John Watson

* * *

_Hello John! My name is George. We spoke on the phone yesterday. I really think you should reconsider the book deal from our company. We are willing to up the advance on your autobiography. We just really feel like this is a story that needs to be told. So what do you say mate? Do you think you can write a few chapters on this Creature bloke in the next few weeks? Call us back!_

* * *

_Hellooooo John, darling. This is Lilian from the BBC. We've left you several messages and I just wanted to make sure you were actually getting our messages. Sometimes technology is fickle. Anywho. We'd love to do a special feature with you. An hour-long special! The only man who ever got to see the Creature up close. You just call me back and we'll talk numbers and logistics okay? Ciao sweetheart._

* * *

_John we're thinking a miniseries. You would be the lead character and he would be your best friend who is revealed as the villain at the end. We're calling it "Creature". We're thinking Carrey Mulligan as your love interest, James McAvoy could be the John Watson character and perhaps a Jude-Law-type unknown as Sherlock Holmes and the Creature? We're thinking of more of a dashing villain, without the scars and stuff. Makes it sexier! Maybe he looks handsome by day and then at night he turns into the Monster? Anyway, we can talk about the details later but your character would be helping him solve all these crimes and looking for the Creature throughout the series. Meanwhile he's falling in love with Carrey Mulligan but he thinks Carrey Mulligan might be the villain and then in the final confrontation we find out that the best-friend-detective-super-hero was the villain all along and everything falls into place and John Watson has to save Carrey Mulligan and kill the Creature. Do you like it? Call us back and we'll send you a draft of the script. All we need you to do is to sign the rights._

* * *

Office of Karen Addison

Senior Partner, Herbert Smith Law Offices

160 Essex Street, London, UK

13th January, 2012

Dear Dr. John Watson,

The lease on the house and the estate in Sussex has been sent to my office. The entire Holmes estate has been left to you according to the last will and testament of the late Mr. Sherlock Holmes and under further instructions left by the late Mr. Mycroft Holmes that all possessions rightfully belong to you in the case of his brother's death.

You need to sign some documents and I have left you multiple voice messages and emails to that effect. I sincerely hope that you will contact me immediately as I would have to send an agent to your home if we cannot contact you otherwise.

Hopefully this letter will find you well.

Sincerely,

Karen Addison

Herbet Smith Law Offices

London, UK

* * *

**Subject: Investigation Report**

**To: ****JWatson **

**From: ****GSLestrade **

Dr. Watson,

I was glad to receive your email and find it to be great coincidence that you should contact me just as I was about to contact you!

Since my retirement from Baskerville I have been doing forensics work at Scotland Yard. As you may have already suspected, you were under some suspicion for your association with Mr. Holmes seeing as Scotland Yard considered him to be responsible for the crimes he was helping solve. I have been assigned to the Holmes case and have, discovered no links between Sherlock Holmes and any of the crimes that occurred after he escaped from Baskerville. He was, of course, guilty of the murders of government agents within the Baskerville labs but you did not know him at the time and you are effectively cleared of all charges and suspicions with conclusive evidence. I have attached the report here (the non-classified parts of it, at least) in case you are interested in seeing for yourself. I must say that the evidence clearing your name was very strong. Rarely has an investigation gone so smoothly. It was almost as if someone had deliberately left us clues. Very strange affair.

As for the request in your email. Yes, I would be willing to testify against the officials at Baskerville who authorized the experiments on Sherlock. I considered them to be inhumane and to this day consider my failure to take actions against those orders as one of the greatest mistakes of my life. I am sure beyond a doubt that Sherlock's actions were a direct response to those treatments. Had I intervened in a decisive way, I would not only have saved Sherlock the pain and humiliation that he endured but also saved the lives of my co-workers.

No. Sherlock wasn't innocent but no man deserved what they did to him in those labs. No one. Especially not someone as brilliant and kind as he was.

I will contact the Ms. Addison immediately with my affidavit.

I'm sorry for your loss, John. I'm surprised to discover that he ever mentioned my name to you. More surprised still that he said such kind things about me. I really was no better than the rest of them. Perhaps I was not actively cruel but I was not kind either.

I believe giving this testimony will relieve a fraction of the guilt I feel for having worked at such an institution.

Best of luck to you,

Dr. Gregory Lestrade

* * *

_Text Message Received 11:30 PM _

_From: Sarah_

John I know you said you didn't feel like speaking but I am worried about you. I understand that you don't feel like we can be together but I always cared for you as a friend. If you need to talk just let me know.

* * *

_To John,_

_Dear John,_

_John,_

_If you are reading this, the plan has not gone according to my wishes. I cannot foresee any circumstance in which I'd admit to you the following while I still breathe and yet I had to express my thoughts to you somehow, even if it is in a letter that will never be read, even if I am writing words that are meant only for my own eyes. If I live I will bury this letter away and if I die, what can be the harm in letting you read this if I am dead?_

_It is absurdly simple, what I need to tell you. I have done something incredibly stupid: I have gone and fallen madly in love with you. It could not be helped. I promise you that I tried very hard to prevent it. I put the weight of my not altogether unimpressive intellect behind the problem of getting rid of my feelings for you. I attempted to care less about you and occupied myself with this effort in a way that I have never dedicated my efforts to any crime that ever crossed our doorstep._

_I failed._

_I love you. And I want you to know it isn't because you are the first person in my brief life who ever treated me like I was anything more than a science experiment, a robot, an animal. It has nothing to do with the fact that you were kind to me and that you cared for me and protected me and made me laugh and ran after criminals with me. All of those things made me like you a great deal, John. They truly did. But I fell in love with you not for the way you treated me but for who you are._

_I have observed humans intently for the past three years and you are the first who has managed to surprise me in any way. You are the bravest man I have ever known and you manage to both keep me grounded and surprise me at every turn. I have never been able to predict you. You are the problem I could never solve._

_I realize you have grown fond of me. Perhaps you may even consider me a friend. I hope you do, though I have never had friends and I don't imagine that I am a very good friend. I hope you'll forgive me any inconvenience or pain that my death will cause you. Though I will fight for my life, my chances of survival are slim. But I want you to know that I want your happiness. I hope you will use the money and the house. I hope you will marry Sarah and have children and lead a happy and fulfilling life. _

_I hope that you may spare me a thought, on occasion. _

_I wish we had had a little more time. Just a little._

_I almost kissed you that night by the door when it was cold and you looked at me almost like I was…something._

_._

_I briefly considered not writing this letter, not telling you how I felt, but in case I do not survive I could not bear the thought of you going on with your life thinking you are anything less than extraordinary. I wanted to you to know, if it is worth anything, that a lonely half-man who never thought himself capable of love now finds himself willing to die for you. Is that even love? I am still not quite sure. I don't quite know what love is. All I know is that I have never been happier than when I was in your presence and I would sacrifice anything for your happiness._

_So please forgive me John, for all the times I dragged you around London, all the times you had to stay cooped up in the house or tolerate the smell of decomposing fingers. I know it is not how a real person would want to live. Forgive me for everything you had to tolerate._

_Give my best to Sarah, and believe me to be, my dear John,_

_Very sincerely yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

**_Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_**

**_By Dr. John H. Watson_**

**Introduction**

I am taking up my proverbial pen, after a year of silence to set the record straight once and for all. Yes, I have rejected the talk shows, the newspapers, the tabloids and even the very keen filmmakers eager to turn my life story into a neat two hours movie. But the time for silence has passed. Now that things have quieted down, now that many of the individuals responsible for the crimes committed against my friend are finally on trial for their mistreatment and abuse, I feel that I can tell the story the way it deserves to be told.

My name is Dr. John Watson formerly a Captain in the Fifth Northumbelrand Fusiliers and I am picking up my pen today to tell you the true the story of my late best friend whom I knew as Mr. Sherlock Holmes and whom you, my dear readers, will know only by his various nicknames in the press. He was alternatively depicted as either the heroic, infallible and flawless "Baker Street Batman" or a vile and heartless Creature, unleashing terror on the people of London. The truth is not only much more simple, it is also much more boring. The truth is this: he was simply a man.

He was a man, in many ways like any other but in most ways singular. That said, his qualities, of which he had numerous, were all human, as were his faults. He was the most brilliant, funny and-much to my readers' surprise I'm sure-caring man whom I have ever met. He was also arrogant, stubborn, blunt and bitter. So you see that while he was a colorful character, he was nonetheless a very human one.

I pick up my pen because I am disheartened by the hypocrisy that I have seen from people who never even met him. This hypocrisy, which was the exact cause of any bitterness or anger he may have harbored. One day he was being heralded as the most amazing man to have ever lived, a brilliant detective who was saving London single-handedly and bringing criminals to justice. Yet when the pictures of him were released in tabloids and the citizens of London discovered that a scientist in a lab brought him to life, he was somehow deemed vile. There were calls for his murder, there were threats against his life and threats against mine.

Let me clear. Let me be as objective as I can possibly be:

He was not innocent.

But any crime of which he was guilty was a product of his humanity.

In fact, I argue here that he was the kindest and purest adult to have walked this earth when he was first born in the lab of mad scientist in a cabin in the Swiss Alps near the Reichenbach Falls. Yes, this scientist, a man by the name of James Moriarty was able to perfectly recreate a grown adult male and bring him to life. Sherlock was physically thirty two when he was born. We will never know how this piece of science was done because the only two humans with that knowledge have now perished in that same cabin where my friend was born. But we will get to that part in a moment.

You must understand that Sherlock was born with the mind of a genius, a fully developed adult brain and no experiential knowledge whatsoever. After being abandoned to die by Professor Moriarty due to the unfortunate appearance of stitches and bolts that held together his muscle and skin tissue which rendered the mad scientist disinterested, he had to teach himself how to walk, how to eat, how to keep warm and find shelter. He was eager and delighted to be in the world but was shunned and beaten no matter where he went. Such was the violence committed against him due to his inability to speak and his frightening appearance that he developed a severe phobia of interacting with other humans. Still, he was kind and eager to be accepted by society so he found clothes, learned to hide his face and go unnoticed and continued to dwell in cities in a variety of homeless shelters and abandoned warehouses.

At this point he happened upon the company of Mr. Mycroft Holmes, a former employee of Her Majesty the Queen, who-blinded by a Syrian operative several years ago-had retired to a home and took charge of my friend.

There, under the care of Mr. Holmes, Sherlock learnt to speak, read, write, think and play the violin-rather well too, if I do say so- in the span of a year. In a year he had read more theology, literature, philosophy, chemistry and biology than the average University professor.

Unfortunately he never did learn much about the solar system and when I informed him that the Earth goes around the sun he remained thoroughly unimpressed.

What happened to Sherlock in the specialized lab called Baskerville, I will not dedicate much space to here in the introduction because it is the subject of one of the chapters of the book. In short he was beaten, tortured, raped, kept in a cage, experimented on and dehumanized to the full extent of the word. He was cut open without anesthesia. He was beaten to test the rates of blood clot and bruising. He was treated like an animal. He later confessed to me that he begged his handlers for death many times but that they believed he was programed to say as much to imitate human responses. They continued their torture.

And that is when I believe he decided that he would do without empathy. Imagine that you have only been alive for two years and each of those two years have been filled with banishment, betrayal, torture, lies, beatings and dehumanization. You are likely to go mad with the rage at the injustice of it all and crave some form of revenge.

I will say it again: Sherlock Holmes was not innocent.

He escaped from Baskerville and, before doing so, murdered six people: his handler Dr. Frankland, his guard Sally Donovan, his operating surgeon Dr. Anderson and all three of the men who sexually assaulted him during his time there.

The only doctor on his case whom was spared was Dr. Gregory Lestrade who has written the Foreward to my book and to whom I am very grateful for filling in the gaps in my knowledge regarding my dear friend. Dr. Lestrade said that after realizing Sherlock was, in fact, very much human he tried to talk the scientists in charge of his case to release him but he was transferred from the division due to these actions.

According to Dr. Lestrade, Sherlock went to his lab that night before escaping, intending to murder him. Sherlock confronted him with a stolen gun and said that the world was not fair and good people were not rewarded with equally good outcomes and that for this reason he had to kill Dr. Lestrade, to prove that like humans he could meet kindness with cruelty.

He couldn't go through with it.

I'll never forget what Dr. Lestrade told me when I asked him why he thought Sherlock had spared his life: "I think he couldn't go through with it because one night I gave him a blanket."

My friend was deprived of all kindness for the better part of two years. The thought that he would be so moved by this simple act of decency fills me with such anger that I can barely breathe.

Despite his guilt, the individuals responsible for the directives at Baskerville are now on trial (thanks in no small part to Dr. Lestrade's testimony) and while Sherlock is not alive to see it, justice is (in some small way) being carried out.

I met Sherlock Holmes during the period of his life following the escape from Baskerville. He was very determined that he would be a very evil person. It did not suit him well but that is what we taught him, unfortunately. When he was created in that lab he was very kind and very generous and we humans taught him that we were cruel and hypocritical and he, ever the brilliant study, learnt to be just like us.

He attempted, as you will remember from the press, to burn the Prime Minister's house, the place where he had been taken by Mycroft for the meeting and then arrested. Thankfully the fire was put out before any substantial damage was done.

During this time he was very determined to go around murdering people. He would take their possession, after which he would show them his face and when they-inevitably-screamed at the marks on his face, he would shoot them.

He took three victims. I will say it again: he was not innocent. He, no doubt, deserved some time in a correctional facility or a jail but he was not a villain.

As it so happens, I was his Sherlock's fourth victim murder victim. Except there was a glitch in the plan: I didn't scream.

I didn't scream and so he couldn't shoot me. And he ended up kipping on my couch that night, and the next and the next.

On the other side of the story (as Sherlock was off being tortured in a shady government lab) I was being shot at in Afghanistan and then I was limping around London being miserable and in pain and bored and suffering from PTSD.

I can honestly say I had considered ending my own life: Sherlock saved me.

We cured each other, plain and simple. Not perfectly, not completely. But I treated him like a human and he treated me like a soldier. And together we ran around London and started catching criminals.

At some point he started to solve crimes he read about and emailing and texting tips to Scotland Yard. They came to rely on him more and more and this is where you, my dear readers, might recall seeing us. We were given superhero nicknames. We were plastered on the cover of every magazine and newspaper: _Baker Street Batman and Robin do it again, another crime solved, another life saved, another national treasure recovered…all thanks to Batman._

Why does he never come out? Where is he? Why does Robin fly solo? You clamored to see his face.

You weren't too happy when you finally saw it though.

You imagined there was a comic-book plot going on right under your noses. Those blurry pictures of Sherlock from the distance in his long black coat and half obscured face did nothing but fuel the gossip. He was Batman and he was probably combatting the horrendous Creature that had attempted to kill the Prime Minister. There was a mysterious rise in crime rates and it was so nice to imagine the Creature was behind it all and that Batman was fighting him back. How ironic that you were pitting Sherlock against himself. But you were right too: Sherlock was both the hero and the villain of his own story in some ways.

Except that there was a villain: his name was James Moriarty. He didn't just create Sherlock, he was also a criminal mastermind and, upset that his creation had dedicated himself to saving lives, wanted revenge. He was the one responsible for the string of crimes that plagued London for the better part of two years and Sherlock, the lab-made Creature you all despised, was the one trying to stop him.

Moriarty helped the tabloids get a real picture of Sherlock, at which point the whole world turned against him, just as Moriarty had wanted. We both escaped London and went to Switzerland. I, of course, had no idea why we were leaving Baker Street for Switzerland when Italy or Spain would have at least been warmer. I imagined Sherlock needed to get away from the ugly chatter to any random location but he was leading us right to James Moriarty.

This mad man later abducted me and the only reason I am alive today is that my friend, Sherlock Holmes traded his life for mine. He knew Moriarty planned on taking me and trading my life for his. Moriarty planned on killing him anyway and he used the trade to blow up the lab entirely, killing them both once I was far enough from the cabin and safe.

I am only here today because I had a friend who was willing to die for me. I cannot imagine that there are many men who can boast that in the world. Should that not be the measure of a man? Yes, he made mistakes. Mistakes that I believe both he and the society that banished him is responsible for. But he was also the man who sacrificed his life to rid the world of the most dangerous criminal mind it has ever known, he sacrificed his life not only for his only friend but also for a world that never gave him a first chance, let alone a second one.

Enclosed in the next 400 pages of this book are his story and mine. The story of his travels and how he came to be in London, the story of how we met, the story of how he changed my life and how I changed his. And most importantly, this is the story of how we built a friendship out of crime scenes and morning coffees and very very crass jokes about stealing body parts from morgues for new chemistry experiments.

This is the story of my best friend and a man whom I came to love very dearly.

In the end Sherlock Holmes was neither villain nor superhero. He was simply a man. He was simply the best man I have ever known.

* * *

**Subject: Your Travel Reservations!**

**To: ****JWatson **

**From: ****hrhtravelagency **

Dear Dr. Watson,

Thank you for choosing our agency to coordinate your travel needs to America! Helen Roads Co. is committed to planning and executing every aspect of your travel needs so you don't have to! Should you have any further requests please do not hesitate to contact us. We pride ourselves in arranging any service at all for our clients.

We are writing to confirm your reservations for two one-way tickets to New York City on February 5th, 2013 under the names of Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sigerson H. Watson. Additionally you have booked one rental BMW from JFK Airport and a fully furnished apartment with two bedrooms and one bathroom at address 220 A Christopher Street in Manhattan. I am to understand that you are signing a long-term lease for the apartment.

If any of the above information is incorrect please feel free to contact me. If not, you are good to go! We here at Helen Roads wish you a safe trip!

Best wishes,

Lucy Grey

Helen Roads Travel Planners Co.

Senior Travel Coordinator

* * *

John has long been convinced that the notoriously dysfunctional Heathrow airport is one of the levels of hell but as he waits by a very crowded Café Nero for what seems like years, he decides it is more of a limbo. Everyone is running around, looking hassled and trying to navigate the crowds with their crying kids and their heavy luggage.

Meanwhile Dr. John Watson merely continues to sip his coffee nervously and tries not to glance around too conspicuously. He tries not to doubt. He tries not to think of a hundred things that could go wrong.

He will come. Sherlock Holmes will show up. He is smart and fast and incredibly resourceful. He will make it.

And there he is.

John can recognize him even with the black hair cropped short and dyed a dirty brownish blond. He can recognize him even with the substitution of a relaxed black coat and white t-shirt for the usual suit and crisp shirt. He can recognize those greyish green eyes despite the lowered hat and the pulled up knit scarf.

He can't control his face from breaking into a grin but he has to resist running to him and pulling him into a fierce kiss in the middle of Terminal 5.

He abandons the cup of coffee and pulls his bag onto one shoulder, making his way through the crowd with quick but controlled strides.

They both weave their way through the streams of people and John can see that Sherlock too is almost shaking with the effort to look casual and not run through the crowd. They cannot afford any added attention.

They are face to face.

"You made it," John whispers into a hasty hug. He says it in a gruff shaky voice that actually means: _ I love you._

"Of course I did. I told you I would. We had a plan."

John smirks at his matter-of-factness. "Well, the last time we had a plan you pretended to blow yourself up, remember? So excuse me if I don't expect your plans to always go…according to plan."

"I considered letting you get on the plane without me and surprising you by showing up as one of the flight attendants but I wasn't quite in the mood to be beaten up by you," Sherlock says with a laugh, pulling John along through the crowds. They rush down one of the large hallways towards their gate.

"How did you get through security?"

"My tricks wouldn't be impressive if I explained them, would they?"

"You do realize they'll need to see your face before you board that plan, right?"

"It will all be fine," Sherlock assures him, pulling him through a side door that John didn't even know existed. Suddenly they are turning away from the streams of people and through swinging doors that say "Personnel Only" in bright letters. They are in an abandoned storage room with carts and repair equipment and very little light.

"We're not supposed to be here," John complains when Sherlock finally stops dragging him along and leans against the door with a sigh.

"Yes, obviously. But I'd like to have a reunion that isn't in a sea of a thousand angry travelers."

"Someone might walk in."

"Have you grown accustomed to stating the obvious in my absence?" Sherlock teases, lowering the scarf from his face and pulling back the hat from his forehead. John has to gape in surprise. The stitches have been redone, the bolts removed and where the skin covering most of Sherlock's face had been scarred and stitched it is now mostly smooth. It is not unblemished but the bolts are gone, the scars somewhat healed and the stitches either a faint red or else the familiar faint white of healed stitches. He looked…well, certainly not worthy of screaming any longer.

"What the hell did you do?" John protests, rushing to cup both Sherlock's face with both hands.

"I told you I needed the year to—"

"You said you needed the year away from London and away from _me_ because I was under media attention and the city was unsafe. You never said you needed the year to redo every stitch on your face."

"I also said I need to prepare our permanent move to the United States," Sherlock explains calmly, avoiding John's gaze. "This is a part of that preparation."

"Getting plastic surgery? Which doctor did you go to? Oh god…you did it yourself didn't you…how the hell—"

"I thought you'd be pleased," Sherlock says quietly, sadly, turning away from him.

Now John has him pinned against the wall, his fingers run gently against the scars on Sherlock's face. "Did you do this for me? Did you really think I cared about some stupid scars or stitches? How many times do I have to fucking tell you that I love you? I would want you no matter what Sherlock. You never needed to change a thing about yourself."

"I did it to make my life in New York easier. No one knows me there. The story didn't get as much publicity there and now that it just looks like I was in a bad car accident, no one will make the connection. I'll have scars but they won't be open wounds, they won't scare anyone, there are no bolts, I won't have to hide or stay inside. I didn't do it because…the scars on my neck and chest are very much still there. If I were doing it for you I would have redone those as well—" he stops there for a moment. "I didn't do it simply because…I did think it had the added bonus of…that…the added bonus that you might find me…"

John never gets to find out what added bonus Sherlock thought redoing his stitches had because in the next second he is kissing Sherlock fiercely and Sherlock's hands are fisted in his shirt.

"There really isn't anything you can do to make me find you more attractive than I already do," he says into the kiss, pulling softly on Sherlock's now shorter curls. "I've basically wanted you in my bed from the moment you woke up looking disheveled on my couch after that first night."

Then he is pressing his body against Sherlock' s once more, propping him up against the wall and kissing him soundly.

"I missed you," he says against Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock is silent for a frighteningly long moment and John is worried, even as he is too busy scattering kisses across his neck and his shoulder that Sherlock is about to say that he's changed his mind, that he's brought John to this little storage room to tell him that he is better off alone and that he doesn't want John to come to New York with him. And then, so quietly John almost thinks he is imagining it Sherlock speaks: "I didn't just miss you. You were the only thought that kept me alive for the past year. I would have been dead without you. I only lived to see you again."

He looks up into Sherlock's face to find him staring down intently, his eyes slightly wet with unshed tears but bright and happy.

That's it. John can't take it anymore.

In a second he is on his knees before Sherlock, in the next he has unfastened Sherlock's trousers and in the next he has swallowed him whole. He cannot remember enjoying anything more than making Sherlock come apart, gasping and moaning and burying one hand in his hair, in a small storage room in the middle of Heathrow airport.

John might revise his ill opinions of Heathrow for the time-being.

* * *

Later as they are drinking champagne in the first class cabin of American Airlines, John finds that Sherlock is staring at him intently.

"You're sure about this?" he asks quietly.

John sighs. "One day you're going to have to stop doubting that I'm madly in love with you and want to spend the rest of my life with you but until that day I'll try to reassure you as best as I can. I have never been surer of anything. I have never been happier Sherlock."

Sherlock does not stop looking at him. "I read your book."

John rolls his eyes. "Of course you did."

Sherlock continues to look at him with an inscrutable expression.

"You're the one who said I had to write it! You said it was crucial to everyone believing that you were dead," John complains.

"It was. But did you have to tell everyone that I don't know the solar system?" Sherlock complains.

John laughs. "So you're okay with them thinking you're a psychopathic murderer but not that you might not know this one thing?"

Sherlock grunts noncommittally.

"You're a lunatic Sherlock."

This earns him a small smile from the aforementioned lunatic. "The rest of the things you said were…um…very good. Thank you…I didn't know…I couldn't have…it was so—"

"I meant every word."

They sit in comfortable silence, drinking. But when Sherlock turns to look at him next, John is embarrassed to find that himself crying-when had he started doing that?- and that Sherlock is looking at him with a puzzled look.

"John. John. No. What is it? Have I done something…please—" Sherlock asks in great panic. He is speaking in hushed whispers, intent on going unheard by the other passengers but the desperation is not dampened by the lack of volume. John can see that he has terrified Sherlock out of his mind.

"No. No. You haven't done anything. I—" John tries to explain, find a way to explain. "I found the letter you wrote Sherlock. I found it a few months ago."

"Oh," Sherlock winces. "How could I have…of course you did…I forgot…damn it. I'm sorry. Stupid. Stupid."

"It was breathtaking," John says affectionately, wiping away tears the stray tears gruffly. "But I couldn't help but think about…what if you had died? I couldn't stop picturing myself finding that letter after coming back from Switzerland but this time you were really dead and I was reading that, finding out that you had loved me but knowing I could never tell you that I felt the same way. I keep thinking that. I keep thinking how unlikely it is that we are getting our happily ever after. One of us should be dead right now. Or else we should still be pining for each other from afar, not daring to say anything about how we really feel. I couldn't stand that though…thinking that you would never know how loved you are. Do you know what that would have done to me? Can you imagine what that would have felt like?"

Sherlock grips his arm, pale, feverish. "Yes. I can."

He looks like he is about to be sick. John wraps his fingers around Sherlock's wrist.

"It's okay now though," John says softly.

"Yes."

"I'm never letting you go again."

"Yes."

* * *

Later that week as they walk around East Village looking for a tattoo shop that is, according to Sherlock at least, a front for a human trafficking business John muses that they are ridiculously happy.

He looks over at Sherlock and they both smile.

* * *

It's not easy. But John has never wanted easy.

At least once a week he wakes up to the sound of Sherlock screaming. On these nights he makes his way to Sherlock's bedroom-they both appreciate having their space-and wakes him up.

Sherlock looks at him panting, curls damp with sweat, face gaunt and horrified. Sometimes there will be tears on his face, other times not.

And he will look up at John every time with wide eyes, vulnerable and soft and say: "You're here. Oh thank God. You're really here."

And John won't say anything. He will just climb into bed with Sherlock and wrap his arms around him, tangling his fingers in Sherlock hair and breathing in unison until Sherlock falls asleep.

* * *

It's not easy. But John has never wanted easy.

During their first three weeks in New York, they solve ten crimes, go on three chases, get shot at five times, twist two ankles, fracture five bones and have two near-death experiences.

It's great.

* * *

It's not easy.

Sherlock is anxious and on-edge when he is not solving cases. And John realizes that this is the function of spending a year running from everything and everyone. He recognizes that Sherlock had never been as hunted as he has been in that one year or so lonely: after all it was worse to be alone after knowing what it was like to be with someone so truly and utterly. Of this John knew a little bit.

John thinks that they are perfectly happy. He has a job as an ER supervisor at NYU Hospital. He is slowly making friends with a few guys in NYPD and a couple of their neighbors. Sherlock is just content solving crimes and lounging around their flat complaining about how bored he is.

One day when he comes back from work, frozen to the bone and exhausted, and frankly disappointed that he doesn't smell takeaway in the apartment.

"Sherlock did you get food like I asked?" he yells as he pulls off his coat. "There better be some Lo Mein in the fridge or I will actually eat you for dinner."

There is no response and the flat seems oddly cold and quiet.

"Sherlock?" he calls, moving from the foyer into the sitting room.

John is ready to reach for his gun when Sherlock finally pops a mop of hair out of his bedroom.

"Oh. Hello John."

"Jesus," John breathes. "You scared me. Since when do you ever not mop around the living room? Why are you in my bedroom?"

"Packing."

"In my bedroom?"

"Packing your things."

"Are we going somewhere?"

"You are."

"You won't be coming?"

"I think you should go back to London."

John feels the anger rise in his stomach. He rubs a hand over his face.

"No. No," he groans. "You're not on about this again. I am so fucking tired of your insecurities. I am not leaving you, you paranoid git. What is wrong with you?"

But Sherlock isn't listening. He has disappeared into the room again. John follows him only to find three suitcases open on the bed and Sherlock rummaging in the closet.

"Can I ask what brought this on?" he asks calmly.

"You should leave," Sherlock explains calmly. "When we first…when we first started sleeping together in Switzerland, there was a lot of adrenaline—"

"Yeah. How many situations are we involved in together that are not adrenaline-fueled? We solve crimes for a living."

"It was two weeks of senselessness. You were glad that I was alive, we were in Switzerland, we were both relieved, you heard me say how I felt in the cabin…I understand why you would reciprocate then but now—"

"Don't you dare imply that we had in Switzerland was nothing," John growls at him.

He'd taken the memories to bed with him for an entire year. He had lived for those memories, the promise of what was to come again. He had always thought of those two weeks after Sherlock had faked his own death and then revealed himself to be alive to be what made the wait and being bombarded by the press worth it.

They had said things during those two weeks, said things John had never said or done things John had never done with anyone else. Now Sherlock was telling him it had been adrenaline!

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. "Let us review our relationship: I nearly killed you, then I kipped on your couch for months, then I had you running around London, then I faked my death and nearly got you killed in the process, we spent two weeks in Switzerland together, you broke up with your fiancée for me, I made you wait for me for a year and then move across the Atlantic. No part of it is good. At all. I don't know how I ever let you talk me into this."

John sighs and rolls his eyes. "Are you telling me those two weeks in Switzerland meant nothing to you?" he says in an overdramatic movie heroine voice. Sherlock looks over his shoulder and John can tell that he is fighting the urge to laugh.

"Sherlock," he says softly, walking up behind Sherlock and capturing his arms to prevent him from folding more of the shirts. "Please. Stop this."

Sherlock slumps into the embrace. "I can't keep holding you back. I can't destroy the only person I have ever—"

"I was so alone," John says. "Why won't you believe me? I was so lonely. Please don't do this to me. I need to stop worrying that you'll leave."

Sherlock wrenches away from the embrace, face twisted in anger and frustration "I'm not going to leave, _you are_."

Suddenly everything clicks.

"You're kicking me out because you think I'm going to leave?"

"It's an inevitability. I'd rather now than later."

"Oh come on. That crap telly show about the rich Californian family with all the plastic surgery is going to be on soon. What's it called? The Kardashanims or something. We could be eating greasy food and making fun of those idiots right now instead of arguing."

This earns a small smile from Sherlock.

"You seem unconcerned," Sherlock mumbles.

"You're concerned about me leaving. I am not concerned about me leaving because I know that I have no intention of doing any such thing."

John stretches and moves out towards the living room.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock grumbles.

"Going to watch telly."

"I'm throwing you out."

"Yeah. No you're not."

Sherlock does not seem amused. "So you're just going to go eat Chinese food and watch telly now? We are having a fight."

"Sounds about right," John says, kicking off his shoes and plopping down on the couch.

"But John! I'm throwing a tantrum," Sherlock groans, half joking.

"And I'm dealing with your tantrum," John says amiably. "By ignoring it."

"John," Sherlock says in a more soft and serious tone.

John turns to look at him. He looks crumbled and sad and if John is honest with himself, entirely endearing.

"Sherlock. Nothing I say is going to convince you that I'm staying with you until the day I die. So I'm going to take a more practical track. I'm going to be here every day. Seeing as you're not an idiot, you'll catch on sooner or later," he says quietly.

Sherlock gives him a small smile and curls beside him on the couch. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I can be difficult."

"You most certainly can."

Sherlock looks up at him with a smirk. "You like it."

John rolls his eyes. "God help me. Yes. I do."

* * *

It's not easy. It's interesting, it's exhilarating, it's fantastic.

* * *

It's not easy. But it works. Somehow it works better than most things in the world.

They are standing over a dead body in the bathroom of a suite at the Waldorf Astoria.

"No. No. Do not touch that corpse," Sherlock commands the forensics expert. "I only work with John."

"But—"

"Don't you need my help?"

"Yes. But—"

"I said: I only work with Dr. Watson."

No one seems to be able to think of anything to say.

"John," Sherlock commands. And he doesn't have to say anything else. John is already investigating the corpse.

"Not poisoning," John tells him.

"The daughter?" Sherlock wonders.

"No. He was strangled. She couldn't have—"

"Clearly," Sherlock agrees, kneeling beside him to look more closely.

"The marks on the wrists were made after—"

"A misdirection. Brilliant. The killer was clearly smart," Sherlock breathes.

"Yes. But the marks on his neck—"

"Obviously John. Don't be an idiot."

"Right sorry. So the wife—"

"No! John! Not the wife. Look at his nails!"

"Yes I see that but then how would—"

"Time of death?"

"Around one this morning. And the bruising indicates—"

"It does, doesn't it?"

"Yes. And the hair—"

"Well, obviously."

John looks around momentarily, keenly aware that everyone on the force is thoroughly confused by their conversation. But having conversations that only he and Sherlock understand has become a part of their every day life.

"He was tackled and then killed," John concludes.

"So he trusted the killer—Ah. Yes. Got it."

"You've already solved it," John huffs.

"Look at his trousers."

"Oh!" John realizes.

And then together they confirm: "His lover!"

They hop to their feet at the same time, smiling, and walk out from the suite into the hallway. The NYPD team follows them out, expecting an answer.

"Inspector Dawson. The killer is a tall man with light brown hair, somewhere between thirty and forty years old. He is a lawyer judging by his briefcase and of very athletic build. The victim was having an affair with this man but threatened to tell his wife about it. If you ask at the reception desk you will most likely find someone on the staff who witnessed them coming together. Text me if you find yourself incapable of finding the man."

The entire NYPD team stands gaping at both of them.

"How did you—" Dawson stammers at Sherlock but Sherlock has already swept past him with a swish of his coat.

"How do you understand anything he's saying?" he groans at John who is looking affectionately at Sherlock walking down the hallway.

"Oh. Just a lot of practice," John says, never taking his eyes off the dramatic figure of the detective, all dark and tall, walking down the beige hotel hallway.

"But—" Dawson starts.

"John," Sherlock yells, turning around at the end of the hall. "What are you waiting for?"

"Nothing," John breathes, shaking Dawson's hand in a hasty goodbye and practically sprinting down the hall. "Nothing at all."

He falls into step right next to Sherlock and they turn the corner together and towards the lifts.

Sherlock turns to smile at him and he grins back foolishly.

* * *

**The last chapter will be chronologically before this and go over the faked death and the two weeks in Switzerland. Thank you for reading. Reviews make my life and anything you have to say is great. Prepare yourself for angst and also a lot of love-time in the next chapter and thank you to all my lovely reviewers. I appreciate you all.**


End file.
